


Part of Your World

by threehundredthirtythree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 67,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9857108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threehundredthirtythree/pseuds/threehundredthirtythree
Summary: All mages are born with a soulmate--a voice they hear in the darkness of the Fade all their lives. The lucky ones find their soulmates and forge a bond strong enough to threaten the very foundations of the Chantry.An Alistair/Amell spin-off of Khirsah's lovely Voice-Verse.





	1. Solona

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fire, Walk with Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/762011) by [Khirsah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah). 



Chapter One: Solona

The Fade was a wild and wondrous place. “Formless, ever-changing,” the Chant of Light called it. A bit like the blank spaces in a pencil sketch, Solona always thought: full of smudges from the everything around it. Once she was older, she’d find out exactly how dangerous those smudges could be. But at eight, Solona thought it was nothing less than fascinating. She could see -- and speak to -- spirits, of all things. Wisps would follow her through her dreams, seeming to take an interest in her. She talked to them like people. She wondered if that was why they liked her.

There were demons, too, but she was too small to be of any real notice to them yet. Like the Templars in the tower, really. As long as she kept her head down and didn’t stray too far, she would be safe until she was old enough to handle herself.

Tonight, though, as soon as her eyes closed, she found herself in the boys’ dormitory in the Circle. Solona pinched herself. No, she was still asleep; the sting was much duller than it would have been in real life. So why was she here? She looked around wildly, searching for answers.

 _“No, no, don’t pull. You’re_ forcing _it, when you should be_ calling _it. Try again.”_   She caught a glimpse of Anders, with Jowan and… herself. Jowan was bleeding, and Anders was coaching her.

Oh, this was the day Jowan fell down the stairs again, and Anders had taught her how to heal.

 _“Inhale, concentrate -- good. Now exhale, and release the mana._ That’s _it!”_ The spirit playing as Solona clapped its hands with glee, as Anders beamed with pride. Jowan’s torn-up knee closed, leaving only a scab behind.

But wait… if this was her dream, why was a spirit posing as her? It didn’t make sense. Solona walked out the door. Maybe she’d find the answer if she went somewhere else. She went upstairs, toward the library -- if she’d find herself anywhere, it was there.

At the top of the stairs was a large wooden door. She opened it.

There was another door, identical to the first one. She opened it, too.

Another door? What _was_ this?

She opened door after door after door, frustrated that she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Behind the doors, she heard a young voice speaking in a language she didn’t understand. From the inflection, Solona thought maybe it was telling a story. Soft giggles punctuated throughout the story, as Solona continued to open the endless doors.

“Come on,” she grumbled, “just _stop_ already, weird dream!”

She ripped open the door in front of her with a grunt - and blinked from the light. Sunshine poured through the now open doorway, and, peeking out a bit, Solona saw a tree and a large stone staircase. A courtyard, maybe? She took a few hesitant steps forward, resisting the urge to call out, or she’d call every nearby demon to come swooping down on her head. The Fade shivered in response to her anxiety.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, wishing she could just wake up and go back home already.

The false sun beat down on Solona, and the plants in the courtyard were a rather aggressive green. In front of her stood a large keep made of solid, silent stone. The grass didn’t so much as move as she stepped on it; it simply went through her, like she wasn’t even there. Solona shrunk back at the bigness and wrongness of it all. Maybe that’s what was wrong. The Enchanters always said that the Fade reflects emotions. So if she stopped being nervous, maybe it would be a nice castle. She strode forward, trying to project confidence onto this place.

It didn’t work. The castle was just as creepy as before. Wasn’t this a dream? Why couldn’t she fix it? She took a few more hesitant steps -- then stopped. A voice rang out through the courtyard, loud and abrupt as a whip-crack.

_“You don’t care about me at all, do you? You just pretend to care because you have to!”_

Somewhere very close by, someone was crying. Oh, so maybe the crying person thought this wasn’t a nice castle, and that’s why it looked like this. Maybe… maybe it wasn’t her dream, but theirs. There were mages who could go into other people’s dreams. Maybe Solona was one of them. She turned slowly around in a circle, trying to hear where the crying was coming from. As the Fade sensed her desire, it drew her awareness off to the left.

Following, she found herself in a stable. It smelled of straw and horse dung. Ugh. Why a stable? Solona had never even seen a real horse; her family hadn’t been rich and now… well, she lived in the Circle, and horses weren’t really needed for towers in the middle of lakes, were they?

_“I hate you! And I hate **her!** This is all her fault! She’s hated me from the start!” _

The crying was louder here, but she didn’t see anyone. The harsh sunlight peered in through cracks in the ceiling, and the straw was simply everywhere. No horses, though. Odd. There were boxes for them, but…

Oh! She spotted a staircase. Maybe she’d find whoever was crying upstairs. The steps didn’t so much as creak under her weight. At eight years old, Solona didn’t weigh much, but old wood should creak. Actually, nothing had been at all bothered by her since she opened that last door. She couldn’t even hear her own footfalls.

_“Just **go away**!” _

Did the voice mean her? Probably not. It couldn’t know she was here, right? She wasn’t making any sounds or anything. She should just continue on.

As she reached the top of the stairs, the room became much brighter. There were holes in the roof that needed repairing, and the false sun seemed determined to show off what it could do. She spied a bedroll on top of haphazardly-stacked bales of hay, and a shattered necklace lying carelessly nearby, as if it had been thrown aside.

And then she saw the boy.

The wrongness of everything -- the weird sun, the silent castle, the horseless stable, everything -- just… sort of… evaporated. And in its place came a tangle of soft, lovely feelings that started to whisper inside her heart. It was frightening and wonderful and so terribly _right._

The boy was her age or a little older, kneeling on the other side of his makeshift bed, his head pillowed on his arms, sobbing his heart out. He looked grubby, like he’d been rolling in the dirt and hadn’t washed yet. Her heart went out to him just before she did. Solona sat on his bedroll and looked down at him, trying to summon a smile.

“Boy,” she said courteously, “why are you crying?”

He didn’t answer. She tore her eyes away from the boy and looked desperately around for something that would fix this.

“Is it your necklace?” she asked. “We could mend it! This is a dream, it doesn’t have to be broken, look!”

But as she willed the necklace to mend… it didn’t. Oh. This really wasn’t her dream, then. She blinked back tears, because she couldn’t help him and he was hurting and she didn’t know what to do.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can fix it… Oh! But maybe _you_ could! Here, stand up now, and give it a try! I know you can do it,” she urged him.

“They, they don’t c-care,” he sobbed. “They’re sending me away and they d-didn’t even ask if it’s what I wanted.”

“Well... that’s wrong of them,” Solona said, trying to sound soothing. “They should say they’re sorry. They should be nicer to you.” Whoever they were, they’d made the boy miserable. She was starting to get angry that someone had made him feel this way.

But anger wouldn’t help him here, so she swallowed it down. “Did _they_ break your necklace? Maybe we should get them to fix it. They should make it right,” she said. “Please stop crying and tell me what’s wrong. Please? I’ll help you.”

A dangerous promise to make in the Fade, she knew, but she had to do something.

“They’re going to make me a Templar. I don’t want to be a Templar, I just want to be me.”

Solona flinched at the idea of sitting next to a future Templar, considering that she was a mage trespassing in his dreams, but she tried her best to be soothing anyway.

“... Would -- would you like me to make you a butterfly? It -- sometimes it helps the other apprentices when they get scared,” she babbled. “Not that you’re an apprentice, I’m an apprentice. In the Circle, I mean, I’m a mage. Is… is that okay?”

The silence between them grew and stretched, punctuated only by the boy’s sniffles.

“I’m, I’m not in your dream on _purpose._ I just sort of… ended up here, and I want to help you, so please… just please tell me what I can do. Whatever you need, I’ll try my best, okay?”

The boy didn’t say anything else, and Solona started to get suspicious. She clapped her hands right in front of his face. “Hey! Can you hear me?” she shouted.

His lack of reaction was a slap. Tears started to sting her eyes.

“... Boy? Can you see me at all? My name is Solona,” she whispered. “Do you even know I’m here?”

He didn’t move. And he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t see her or hear her. She couldn’t make herself known at all. So he still thought nobody cared. Her heart started to break for the lonely little thing.

“Well, I can -- I’ll sit with you, whether you can see me or not. Maybe it will help? Maybe -- maybe you’ll know, somehow,” she said, shifting a little closer to him.

Even though this wasn’t her dream, maybe the Fade would be good and let him know someone was listening, if she just hoped hard enough. Solona stayed with the boy in friendly silence until he stopped crying and started to fade away. She waved at him, even though he couldn’t see it.

“I hope you find a nicer dream. Or nicer people,” she said. “Or both. Both would be good.”

 _She_ woke up to a pillow smacking her in the face and Anders and Jowan’s cackling. Maybe she should have kept her hopes for herself.


	2. Irving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, the response to this story so far has been overwhelming. Thank you so much for all your kind comments, along with the kudos and bookmarks. I'm glad you're all along for the ride!
> 
> Incidentally... I am planning on EARNING the "Slow Burn" tag, so, you know... consider yourselves warned.
> 
> Thanks again, my dear readers!

* * *

 

Chapter Two: Irving

The lesson had gone reasonably well so far today, Irving reflected as his eight young students leafed through their textbooks, searching for the correct pages. There had been a minimum of distractions, and, while it wasn’t a day for practical magic -- which they _all_ loved, Irving included -- no one had fallen out of their chairs in boredom. Irving was prepared to call it a good lesson.

However… it hadn't gone  _perfectly_. Irving was concerned about one of his students: Solona Amell. She was petite, with a heart-shaped face and a long black braid that she often flipped over her shoulder for dramatic purposes. Today, that braid was dangling over her notebook, and she hadn't even opened the text he'd asked them all to read. It was most troubling.

“So… has anyone found the four schools of magic?” Irving asked as he walked between the desks.

Usually, he would have suspected that Solona's hand would be the first in the air, ready as ever to answer… but it was _not_. One of his other students, Kinnon, answered instead.

“Entropy, Creation, Primal, and Spirit.” Kinnon said.

Irving nodded. "And can anyone tell me how the schools are divided?"

Again, another student, Keili, was first to raise her hand. Irving looked at her and gestured for her to answer.

"P-primal and Spirit are the schools of -- of energy? And Entropy and Creation are matter?"

Irving made sure his smile was warm; Keili was shy and rarely answered questions, but she was exactly right.

“ _Very_ good. Does anyone here know the difference between the two schools of matter?” Irving asked.

The class was silent. No hands were raised.

“Hmm,” Irving said, pretending to ponder the question himself. “ _No one_ knows? Apprentice Amell, do _you_ have any ideas?”

Solona blinked and looked up from her notebook. Glancing at it, Irving saw nothing written down. This was most unlike her. Solona wasn’t the most powerful of his apprentices, but she was easily one of the best _students,_ ever scribbling notes on his lectures (complete with doodled commentary in the margins). Many, many lunch hours were spent with her sitting in his office, peppering him with questions about concepts far above her skill level. She didn't always understand the answers, but it seemed she liked learning them anyway. (Irving, again, made a mental note to direct her to more age-appropriate reading material.)

“Um,” Solona closed her eyes, as if clearing her thoughts, “The… _The Four Schools_ says that Creation is the school of life, and Entropy is the school of death. They’re opposites.”

Irving nodded at her. Technically, Entropy was the school of _negation_ , not death, but he hardly expected an eight-year-old to know that. And it was more important for Irving to know that, despite whatever was going on, she was still paying attention.

“Isn’t Creation the school of healing magic?” Kinnon asked.

“It is,” Irving said. “Though the exact process is complicated, and we’ll study that another day.”

“First Enchanter?” Jowan, Solona’s friend, called out.

Irving turned to him. He was a tall boy, black-haired and light-eyed, and _thoroughly_ attached to Solona. The two of them were together often, though Irving often detected a hint of jealousy from the older boy to the younger girl. Irving had taught enough apprentices to know that Jowan was reasonably talented, and, in raw power alone, easily surpassed Solona… but he wasn’t willing to apply himself the way she was, and his nervousness and need to do everything _right_ got in his way. Solona, being more flexible and willing to make mistakes, ironically often did better than her more powerful friend.

“What about blood magic? What school is that?” Jowan asked.

Irving stayed silent for a moment, allowing the mood in the classroom to shift from an easygoing lesson to a deadly serious one.

“Blood magic is technically its own school,” Irving said, slowly enough that none of the students would mistake his meaning, “and we will _not_ be studying it, even theoretically.”

A murmur went up around the classroom as Jowan sank slowly into his seat. It spoke a great deal about Solona’s distraction that she hadn’t noticed the exchange, the shift in tone, or the embarrassment of her friend.

As the Chantry bell rang out, tolling the hour, Irving dismissed the class. As if by magic, the students all brightened and left… save two. Solona remained at her desk, staring down at her notebook as if she hadn’t heard the bell, and Jowan waited next to her.

“Apprentice Amell,” Irving called, beckoning her over to him. She started and looked up, surprised to see that no one else was left.

Jowan looked between the two of them, almost as if he were torn about staying nearby. She gestured toward the door, letting him know he could leave. Once he had gone, Solona shyly met Irving’s eyes and shifted her weight from foot to foot. A classic guilty stance. This did not bode well.

“You are not yourself today, child,” he said gently.

“I know,” she replied, glancing away. “I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I… I didn’t sleep well last night, ser.”

_That_ was cause for true concern. He swept an arm across her shoulders and brought her to a pair of chairs farther away from the door and the Templar standing guard in the hall. He sat in his chair and reached for her hand, signaling that she should look at him.

She did, thank the Maker, and she sat down.

“What troubles you, child?” he asked, his voice gone quiet, as to not be overheard.

“I -- there was a boy, last night. In my dreams. Or I think I was in _his_ dream, maybe. He was crying,” she replied just as softly, cuffing the tears out of her own eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

Oh, the poor girl.

She’d found her Voice.

The _truth_ about Voices was simple enough: they were the other half of a mage’s soul. Mages and their Voices were, colloquially, soulmates, but it was so much _more_ than just love. Once a mage was fully bonded to his or her Voice, the mage was both safe from demons _and_ far more powerful than they would have been otherwise.

The Chantry feared that power, but Irving thought they feared the loss of leverage over the mages even more. The Chantry liked to claim that the Circle existed for two reasons: to protect the common folk from the mages, and to protect the mages from themselves. But if no mage ever had to worry about possession, what happened to the Chantry? Why would mages who were _immune_ to demons need to be locked away? Why would apprentices fear the Harrowing, the Fade, or their own abilities?

The Chantry lost _half_ its power through that knowledge alone, and they well knew it.  And so, they insisted on teaching their apprentices precisely _nothing_ about Voices… or, at least, nothing _true._ Apprentices weren’t even allowed to search, meaning that many became full Circle mages, Tranquil, or even died without ever having heard the people who held the other halves of their souls. Often, even if they did hear their Voices, they didn’t realize what it was. Much like Solona now.

Were things different, Irving could see himself being happy for her. But with the Templars watching their every move? He had to do his duty and caution her.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice quietly taking a teacher’s tone, “what you saw in your dream last night -- the crying boy -- _you must never seek him out again._ ”

“I didn’t, I swear!” Solona protested in a whisper, “I don’t know how it happened.”

“I believe you,” he urged, squeezing her hand. “But now that you have found him, you must keep _away_ from him, do you understand? We do not need to give the Templars any excuse to suspect you of anything.”

“Why would they --”

“Because he is your Voice, child.”

The words had little impact on her. _Damn_ the Chantry for their insistence on the miseducation of his apprentices.

“The boy you heard…” Irving began, hiding his frustration, “you will _always_ hear him, calling out in the Fade. He is your Voice. If things were different, I could tell you exactly what that means.”

The young girl’s eyes narrowed as she tried to comprehend the few scraps of information that Irving could give her.

“All mages have them, and the Chantry fears that… as it does everything else. You must not give them reason to suspect that you will turn apostate to search for him,” Irving pressed upon every single word, _willing_ her to understand.

“But First Enchanter? _Why_ is a… a Voice so frightening?” she asked.

Irving smiled. She _was_ a good student.

“Because bonding with a Voice makes a mage more powerful… among other things. The Chantry fears that because they say that _you_ are broken. They would have you believe that you will be fulfilled by a life of service to the Maker in the Circle,” Irving said.

“That’s not true, is it.”

“No,” he replied, his smile turning softly sad, “it isn’t.”

Solona looked away, her thoughts somewhere far distant. Still, Irving trusted her. She was cautious. Careful. _Dutiful_ , even as he was. He had a sudden, vivid image of her sitting in this very spot, counseling an apprentice of her own, long after he was gone.

_Maker, if You ever listen, then please. Not_ this _girl._

“Do you understand, child?” he asked, wanting to be certain.

“Yes, ser,” she said, rock-solid as in any of her lessons.

“And if anyone asks what we were speaking of?”

Her eyes darted to the side for a moment as she thought. This sort of improvisation was necessary if she was to survive in the Circle. Irving knew that better than anyone.

“I… I wanted to show you my newest sketch?” Solona suggested, “It’s of you, and I was nervous about you seeing it.”

Irving beamed at her as she whisked her sketchbook out of her satchel. If he’d ever been so fortunate as to have a daughter… well. It wasn’t worth thinking of now. The sketch of him was quite good, apart from the beard being a bit _too_ bushy. He “confiscated” it, and kept it in the desk in his office for a long time afterward.


	3. Solona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everybody! This is a long one, but I think you'll like it!
> 
> Side note: next week is my daughter's third birthday! I may or may not be able to post a new chapter. I'll do my very best, but I wanted to give you all a heads-up just in case.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

Solona really wished she could just _stop_ dreaming of him. She _tried_ to do what Irving had asked of her, she really did. But...

_An orphaned bastard, unwanted, unloved, inconvenient at every turn. A mother dead, a father gone, a caregiver who didn’t care, and a faith that offered no comfort. Regret. Heartbreak._

… he didn’t have anyone else. How could she leave him to be lonely?

Another boy was making an appearance tonight. He had kind grey eyes and curly black hair. The spirit was kindness and gentleness itself. Literally. The Fade was like that. Solona could tell, just by looking: he was always smiling, and he followed wherever _her boy_ went.

He seemed very missable. Solona felt sorry for her boy.

“Come on, Aidan! Let’s sneak into the castle!”

_“Be_ quiet, _Alistair!”_ The laughing spirit hissed. “ _Do you_ want _to get caught?”_

_Oh. His name is Alistair._

Solona rather liked it, and a blush started to slink across her cheeks, though she wasn’t sure why. Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she decided to follow along with them. He -- _Alistair_ \-- might need her. For something. Maybe.

The three of them crept over to a big windmill. Alistair unlocked a secret door in the floor with a ring. Was this real, or was it a metaphor for something? Solona wasn’t sure.

Alistair and the spirit stifling giggles, they started down a long, dark tunnel -- and the dream shifted. Solona couldn’t say what had changed, exactly. It was a subtle shift, like an otherwise lovely song having one note just a tad too sharp.

“Wait!” she called out. “This isn’t a nice dream anymore! We need to go back!”

Of course, her boy couldn’t hear her, and the spirit ignored her. This wasn’t _her_ dream, after all.

The long tunnel let out in the middle of a great stone room, even bigger than the Great Hall in the Circle Tower. Spirit-Aidan had disappeared. The firelight in the room was a sickly green, and even the _air_ seemed dark.

Hundreds and hundreds of identical boys in identical armor with the Templar sword on the breastplate filed out around Alistair. He was suddenly dressed in it, too, trying to keep up with their noisy unison marching, but they outpaced him. He ran, faster and faster, doing anything to keep up, but the armor slowed him down until they were out of sight and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Wait, please!” He called out, with all the breath he could spare.

One of the Templars -- a snotty, rat-faced man -- turned on his heel and marched back. He had a Knight-Commander’s armor on, and he was easily double Alistair’s height. Alistair looked up, reaching for a hand that wasn't there. Instead, the Knight-Commander glared at him with disdain.

_“Bastard_ ,” he spat.

A sudden fury choked Solona, and she surged forward.

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to him like that!” she shouted, throwing a completely-ineffectual punch at the demon wearing the Knight-Commander’s shape.

It laughed, turning and walking away as if they meant nothing. Alistair remained on the floor. He didn’t move. Maybe he _couldn’t_ move.

_Maker,_ all she wanted to do was give her poor boy a hug. Let him have a good cry. Make him some tea. If -- if he liked tea. Solona didn’t know. _She_ liked tea. But maybe _he_ didn’t. Maybe he preferred water or milk or, or wine or something.

Oh, what did it _matter_? He couldn’t hear her, anyway, and here she was obsessing over _beverages._ _Honestly._

“Hey. Hey, listen to me, all right? You’ll get through this. You’re worth all of those other Templars put together. It’ll be okay,” she said, making her voice as soothing as elfroot. “Why don’t we go back to the nice part of the dream? The part with Aidan. You were going to sneak into the castle, remember?”

Alistair faded away, waking up wherever he was. She hoped he didn’t remember the nightmare.

“Have a good day,” she whispered as he disappeared.

 

* * *

 

The waves were so high that they flooded over the sides of the ship, covering the deck in at least an inch of water. Rain battered the sailors, who were desperately trying to right themselves and keep anyone from going overboard. The salty sea air that Solona often read about was muted somewhat; smell and taste were often muddled in the Fade. And Solona was the only one who wasn't soaked.

Alistair and a golden man burst out from the cabin just off to her left. Solona hadn’t seen the golden man before, but he and Alistair looked just alike, except the man was about thirty years older.

_“It isn’t safe up here! Please, get back inside!_ ” called a sailor, half-tangled in the sodden rigging.

_“Go. Look after your mother. She needs you,”_ the golden man said quietly to Alistair, putting a hand on his shoulder. _“I’m going to lend these men a hand, and I’ll be down as soon as this is all over.”_

“No,” Alistair insisted, “I’m not leaving you.”

Alistair moved to assist the sailors without waiting for further permission. The golden man sighed, and they were ordered to pull on some ropes to shift the sail. Apparently the spirits were as knowledgeable about sailing as actual sailors would be, because they were trying to angle the sail to harness the power of the rain. Solona guessed that would translate into forward motion, hopefully getting the boat through the storm.

As Alistair, the golden man, and the sailors pulled on various ropes and jettisoned supplies overboard to lighten the ship (and hopefully increase their chances of survival), Solona wondered why this was Alistair’s dream. He had never been on a ship, as far as she was aware. And stormy seas weren’t usually part of his dreams, either.

The glint in the sailor’s eye as the golden man pulled him free from the rigging was enough for Solona to realize that this dream wasn’t going to end happily.

He slipped, stumbling backwards. A sudden gust of wind catapulted him over the edge of the boat. While another sailor called out “Man overboard,” the golden man and Alistair rushed to help. The sailor was clinging on to the side of the boat with all his strength.

_“Help me, please!”_ he cried.

The golden man reached for the sailor, catching hands and starting to pull -- when the water on the deck and another sudden roll of the ship forced _him_ overboard instead.

“No!” Alistair called out, rushing forward, reaching -- but too late.

“I’ve got him!” Solona shouted, forgetting for a moment that this was a dream. She took a fast breath, and with it, expelled a glyph of paralysis on the surface of the water.

The golden man’s foot touched the glyph… and he froze before he could break the surface.

“I -- it _worked?”_ Solona asked. “It really _worked?”_

Oh, wait. Of course it worked. It wasn’t _real_ water. _It’s still the Fade._

Alistair threw a rope overboard, which, after a moment of paralysis, the golden man was able to grab. Some sailors helped to hoist him back on board the ship. He rested his hands on his knees, panting.

_“That was a close call,”_ the golden man said.

Alistair grinned at him, about to make any number of puns, when the golden man pulled him into an embrace. After a long moment, Alistair relaxed into the hug, and the storm began to subside.

“Don’t do that again,” Alistair said, his voice muffled into the golden man’s shoulder.

_“I’ll try my best.”_

_“King Maric! Prince Alistair! Are you all right?”_ the spirit who was presumably the captain said, rushing up to them.

_“Yes, thank the Maker and my son,”_ the golden man answered.

_Oh_.

“I’m so sorry,” Solona whispered.

No wonder he’d never fit in at Redcliffe, or referred to anyone as “mother” or “father.” _King Maric_ was his father. So all the name-calling was actually true. (Still wrong to do, but true.)

And worse, the _real_ King Maric _had_ been lost at sea. Recently, in fact. Well. If Alistair was mourning his lost father in real life, that was one thing. But he didn’t have to do it in his dreams. Not if Solona had anything to say about it.

Solona cupped her hands together and breathed into them, focusing her energy and infusing some white light with warmth and calmness. She shaped the light into a butterfly, and she let it loose over Alistair and the spirit posing as King Maric. The two of them visibly relaxed, and the tone of the dream shifted as the sun broke through what was left of the storm clouds.

By the time Alistair started to fade away, returning his consciousness to the waking world, King Maric had told him dozens of stories of closer calls than this one: armies, dragons, darkspawn,  swamp witches -- King Maric had seen it all. And Alistair gobbled up every word, as excited as if he were a small boy again.

Solona didn’t dare get too close to them, for fear of spoiling the happy dream, but her heart _broke_ for Alistair. He didn’t have to mourn in his dreams, but it didn’t seem like half enough.

 

* * *

 

The small cloister was dark, save one burning candle. Alistair knelt before a statue of Andraste, reciting.

This was usually done before the vigil that culminated in a Templar’s final vows. Unless this was a memory, but somehow, Solona didn’t think so. It felt too… insubstantial. The edges of the dream were too grey and formless for this to be a real thing that happened.

He whispered,

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Guide me through the blackest nights._

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked._

_Make me to rest in the warmest places._

 

Trying desperately to ignore the sudden _awareness_ she felt, she walked over and knelt beside him, reciting in unison.

 

_O Creator, see me kneel:_

_For I walk only where You would bid me._

_Stand only in places You have blessed._

_Sing only the words You place in my throat._

 

_My Maker, know my heart:_

_Take from me a life of sorrow._

_Lift me from a world of pain._

_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._

 

If _anyone_ knew a life of sorrow, it was him. She gently brushed his hair away from his face, a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes. He continued to recite.

_He’s worthy of_ anyone’s _endless pride. I’m sure of it,_ Solona thought.

She watched him pray, seeing him for the first time as something more than the grubby boy from the stables _._

He’d grown tall and broad, with shoulders that should not have commanded her attention as much as they did. Red-blond hair that looked soft to touch. Eyes a gentle amber color. A jawline that was clearly sculpted by some kind of god. A bit of stubble, for just the right amount of “I-don’t-care-how-I-look” scruff. And seriously, those lips should be illegal. Actually, considering the Chantry rules against fraternization, they _were,_ weren’t they?

Her heart gave a terribly treacherous lurch.

_Maker, he’s beautiful_.

No, wait. _No._ This was dangerous and wrong. The Templars could make her _Tranquil_ if they thought she was trying to find her Voice. They would do _anything_ to keep her away from him. If she had been younger, maybe they would have understood, but she was getting close to her Harrowing now.

She finally understood Irving’s warning from all those years ago. If only she had bloody _listened._ Instead, she’d treated this like a fairy story, like… well, a dream, thinking that it couldn’t hurt her if it wasn’t real.

But now…

Maybe… maybe it would be better if she just left. Maybe she should leave for good, ignore his cries from now on. If he was lonely... well, it’s not like she could do anything for him from inside the Circle, and she couldn’t very well _run away._ She was fine. She had her teacher and Jowan and Anders and her books and her drawings. That was enough. That _had_ to be enough. He didn't know she was here, anyway.

For all it was a dream, she was putting herself in very _real_ danger here, and not just from demons.

“I’m sorry,” she couldn’t stop herself from whispering.

Solona turned to leave the cloister as Alistair finished:

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world,_

_And comfort is only Yours to give._

 

* * *

 

Solona didn’t make it a week.

She tried her best to ignore Alistair as he cried out into the Fade. She practiced spells, or talked with spirits, or worked on meditation and breathing -- though it was surprisingly difficult to empty her mind while she was _inside_ it.

Still. He kept calling. It haunted her. She started to think she could hear it while she was _awake,_ sometimes. It _hurt_ to know he was hurting. It felt… it felt suspiciously like heartbreak. Like being crushed from the inside. An implosion of the soul.

And then, one night, everything… shifted. Solona felt the difference as soon as she fell asleep. It was like the feeling just before casting a spell. Anticipation, almost. With a slight undercurrent of fear, and a few other muddled emotions besides.

What if he needed her?

_No, Solona, keep yourself still._

But it felt different. She couldn’t deny that it felt different.

She sat, trying to breathe through it.

… One little peek into his dream couldn’t hurt, right? She’d just make sure he was all right, and then she would leave and come back here and meditate. He didn’t _need_ her, but for her own peace of mind, she could check. She couldn’t clear her head with this hanging over her it, anyway. Right?

Solona found Alistair’s dream -- and stepped directly in the middle of a grand tournament. Why were they having a tournament? Templars didn’t have tournaments. Wish fulfillment, maybe? Did he want to be a knight once, before they met?

But no. Every spirit she could see was dressed in full Templar regalia, and they all began a grand melee. She found Alistair off to the side, sword and shield in hand, staring.

“Well? Go on, then,” Solona encouraged. Alistair didn't move, because  _of course he didn't. This is the Fade, you ninny. He still can't hear you._

“So, what’s the tournament for?” she asked, more to herself than him. She looked around and saw Templar after Templar: this one was clearly a Knight-Captain, these were initiates…

Oh, _Maker_ , no.

She saw an armored man _with a Grey Warden insignia on his breastplate._ She shook, shocked worse than a lightning spell. If she’d been clear-headed, she would have tried to calm herself before a demon felt her panic and rage seeping out into the Fade. But this was _important_ and so she couldn’t be clear-headed. Not this time.

“A Grey Warden? That’s what this is for? You want to be a _Grey Warden?_ ” she cried, suddenly furious. “Do you have _any_ idea what could _happen_ to you? People _say_ things about the Wardens! They, they, they _recruit people_ and then they’re never heard from again! They join the Wardens and _they die!_ Is _that_ what you want?”

He didn’t answer. Of _course_ he didn’t answer, he _couldn’t_ answer, but _for the love of Andraste,_ _please just_ _look at me, I don’t think I can bear it._

Alistair was her _Voice_ . She would never be able to find him, not truly, not with the Circle and the mages and the Templars and just, just _everything._ But as a Templar he was _safe._ Being a Templar, as much as he hated it, he was _safe._ She could never find him, but she couldn’t _lose_ him _._

“Alistair,” she whispered, “you could _die._ And… and I don’t think I would survive that. I can’t. I… I love you.”

It had taken her ten long, lonely years of spying on his dreams to admit it to herself. She sucked in a long breath.

“I hate this,” she confessed. “But, but Alistair, if _this_ is real, this tournament… it will change _everything._ I -- I can’t lose you. You’re all I really have. You know? No, wait, of course you don’t. You don’t even know I’m here. There’s only one heart here to break.”

She gave a hopeless, watery laugh, and stared at Alistair for a long moment, drinking him in. His jaw was set, and his eyes glinted with a hitherto unseen determination.

Oh. _That’s_ what was different. She’d never felt him _hope_ before.

Maybe… maybe _he_ had never felt hope before.

Her breath shuddered, tears pricked her eyes, and her heart broke again for him. For them both.

“If… if this is what you want. And if you get it, then. Then okay. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? When you, I don’t know, when you love someone? So… so if it means you’ll be happy, and away from all these people who make you so miserable, and it means you don’t have to, to peel potatoes or get called a bastard or, or _any of it,_ then… okay. I mean,” she finished with a half-hysterical sob, “it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

With one long, last look at him, Solona turned and left. She would never see him in her dreams again.

 


	4. Alistair

 

_This is it,_ Alistair thought upon waking. He’d done well the last several weeks. He’d been good. He hadn’t caused any trouble -- well, as much as that was possible, given that his mouth had a tendency to run off randomly. More than once, he’d wanted to slap a smart remark back -- but it was too late. He couldn’t unsay a word any more than he could un-ring a bell.

Still. His behavior had been stellar, all things considered. He was practically a model student. Or at least, as close to one as he could get. Which is why he was here, waiting in the antechamber with his fellow templars, probably looking like a puppy desperate for walkies.

_Please,_ he thought. _Please just let this happen. Let me_ try, _at least. Just this once, let something go_ right.

Knight-Commander Glavin, a man whose face was eighty-percent chin, gestured everyone forward, probably to receive their instructions for getting ready and the rules of the melee. But when he saw Alistair, he held out a forbidding hand.

“Not you.”

“But --” Alistair began.

“No.”

This was it, then. His last chance at getting out of this Maker-forsaken place, at _being someone_ , at, at, _freedom_ just disappeared with one syllable and a hand gesture. The hope he had foolishly allowed to grow in his chest shattered. None of the other templars gave him so much as a sympathetic glance as they readied themselves for the tournament. One knocked into his shoulder in a way that had to be deliberate, causing him to stumble slightly.

_“Bastard,”_ he heard someone hiss.

When they’d all left, he sat, put his head in his hands, and groaned. This was going to be his life forever. Maker’s breath, what a mess he was in. He usually tried not to feel sorry for himself, but _this…_ this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and it was gone before he’d even been able to _try._ Resigned, Alistair decided to just watch the tournament. At the very least, he’d get to see who won. He walked out into the courtyard. Since it was just being held for the Grey Warden, at least he’d be guaranteed a decent view.

A short while later, the proper templars had made themselves ready, gathering in the courtyard for the tournament. From the way they were setting up, it appeared to be a grand melee, every man for himself. And, Maker, next to Knight-Commander Glavin -- that, that must be the Grey Warden. He was dark-skinned, and had long, dark hair tied back behind him. Between the hair and the earring, Alistair was prepared to say he probably wasn’t Fereldan. Rivaini, maybe. But he had a grim, battle-hardened look about him, and a determined glint in his eyes that intimidated the _Void_ out of Alistair.

At first, it was near incomprehensible -- to him, anyway. So many men and women on the field made for confusing viewing. Alistair stole a glance over at the Warden and saw him exchange a few words with the Knight-Commander -- and, and were they _talking about him?_ It was too far away to hear, but the Warden was _definitely_ looking at him. Knight-Commander Glavin sighed, and then Alistair was _sure_ they were talking about him.

A few more whispers passed between the two of them… _and the Knight-Commander nodded at him_ . Grudgingly, yes, but _still._ Alistair’s eyes darted over to the Grey Warden, certain he _must_ have misunderstood… but the Warden was smiling at him. With inelegant and improper haste, Alistair _bolted_ from the room, donning his armor faster than he ever had before.

Maybe… maybe there was reason to hope after all.

Bundled in an old set of splintmail, which was all he could find, Alistair rushed back to the courtyard for the melee. The rules were fairly simple: it was a free-for-all, and once a warrior was knocked down, he or she was considered “captured” and was escorted off the field. In _real_ tourneys, those “captured” would be ransomed for real coin, and some people made good wages off of it. But here, for the honor of the Grey Warden, and in the sight of the Maker, the “captured” warriors had just lost.

Maker. The chance to even _try,_ to be _standing here_ , was something.

He didn’t expect that the Knight-Commander would start the whole thing over -- the man was barely _looking_ at Alistair, anyhow -- so he entered the melee without any ceremony or pomp whatsoever.

Immediately, one of the other recruits _charged_ at him, sword down to strike low. Following the boy’s momentum, Alistair caught the blade with his shield, pushing his opponent’s arm much too far to the right. His opponent stumbled; Alistair gave one extra little shove with his shield, and the boy was down.

Alistair dropped his sword and extended a hand to help his opponent up. But the boy stuck his nose in the air and stomped off the field in a huff. Alistair shrugged and flashed a smile at the Grey Warden that clearly said _what can you do, right?_ And continued his progress in the melee.

Picking up his sword again, he waited, biding his time. And after a moment, Ser Brinley and Ser Wallas looked over in his direction. The two of them were cousins, and they were _always_ together. They’d formed an alliance, unsurprisingly, and Alistair was their next target. Positioning his shield in the middle of his torso to hide the movement of his shoulders and hips, Alistair let them come to him. Ser Brinley, with his big two-handed sword, rained blow after blow down on the shield; he was always impatient. Alistair kept the shield locked in place; terrible technique, but he had a plan. Brinley tired quickly; his sword was too heavy for him to keep up that pace forever. Alistair pushed his shield forward as hard as he could without causing real damage. Brinley was exhausted enough that his form was off; he fell over.

Wallas _growled_ at Alistair, rushing forward. Alistair side-stepped. Wallas passed him, and Alistair wheeled around, keeping his sword at his hips and shield at his chest. Wallas struck high; Alistair jammed Wallas’s sword arm on the shield, shutting him down. Alistair pushed _his own_ sword arm between the two of them, sweeping left to right around the shield and knocking Wallas down.

The two warriors grumbled, annoyed at being disqualified. Alistair offered a hand to each of them in turn. Brinley took it; Wallas refused.

There were only a few combatants left on the field now, eleven or twelve at most. Alistair wondered, in a detached way, if he’d still be standing here if he’d competed in the tournament from the beginning. His arms and shoulders were starting to complain, and his back was already screaming with the exertion.

Alistair was unfortunate enough to attract the attention of Ser Ehryn. One of the only women on the field, and she _deserved_ to be there. She was _good._ Better than most of the men they trained with, which chafed some of the others. Alistair, on the other hand, often copied her techniques if he could. She didn’t wait even a moment to press forward, trying to overpower him with her shield. She struck again and again, trying to stun him or knock him down, forcing him to keep his shield locked in position. His arms and shoulders were on fire as Ser Ehryn drove Alistair back farther and farther.

That’s when he felt the sharp pain in his back. Blunted, but still. Alistair turned his head to investigate.

Ser Kalvin. He wore light armor and fought in a decidedly Antivan style, or so the swordsmaster had always told them. Above everything else, he fought _fast_ and he fought _dirty_. Alistair thought he’d wheel forward to keep his shield between him and _both_ opponents, but Ser Ehryn had moved while he was distracted. She pushed one last time with her shield, and Ser Kalvin struck the pommel of his sword into Alistair’s face. He tasted blood, and his world darkened for a moment.

He was dazed, but still not out. The two of them aimed to fix that.

Ser Ehryn resumed attacks on Alistair’s shield; Ser Kalvin dropped his sword and bent forward. He grabbed Alistair by the knees, pulling forward and knocking Alistair on his ass.

The two of them ignored Alistair from that point, fighting each other instead. He could barely see as he struggled to his feet and stumbled out of the melee. He found a rag and put pressure on his nose to try to stop the bleeding. It didn’t feel broken, this time. Kalvin had held back from doing any real damage.

After a few more minutes, Ser Ehryn was the last warrior standing. Alistair tried his hardest to be happy for her.

_At least I tried,_ he thought. _I had the chance, even if I didn’t win._

“Congratulations, Ser Ehryn,” Knight-Commander Glavin’s voice rang out. Cheers, and some mumbled protests, went up all around the courtyard. Alistair applauded loudly; she deserved it.

“And the place in the Grey Wardens?” Ehryn asked.

The Grey Warden looked uncomfortable.

“You fought well,” he said, “but being a Grey Warden requires more than skill in combat.”

“We were led to believe that the winner of the tournament would be given a place in the Wardens,” Ser Ehryn protested.

“I did not ask for the tournament, nor did I offer recruitment as its prize,” he answered, gently deflecting criticism back onto the Knight-Commander. “Being a Grey Warden takes dedication, and loyalty to your brothers and sisters above anything else. I have only seen this from one fighter today. Alistair, would you please step forward?”

He was dreaming, right? He had to be.

But as the Warden’s eyes searched the crowd, looking for someone, looking for _him_ , it became harder to doubt. Their eyes locked, and the Warden smiled. Alistair tried to smile back, but his face still hurt. The Warden beckoned him forward. Alistair moved stiffly, trying to look composed, but his body was yelling at him.

“Welcome,” the Warden said quietly.

This could not possibly be happening. There was _no way_.

“But I didn’t even win the tournament!” Alistair exclaimed, still disbelieving.

“I came here looking for a warrior of conscience, and I believe I have found one.”

“Duncan, my friend, I have to object,” the Knight-Commander said.

Oh, wait. This was _definitely_ happening. The Grey Warden -- Duncan -- turned his head slowly toward the Knight-Commander as if his opinion held no weight whatsoever. Alistair was vaguely aware of another Templar running off somewhere, but he didn’t care, he didn’t _care_ , he was going to be a _Grey Warden_ if Duncan had anything to say about it.  _Maker._ This -- this was everything he’d ever dreamed of. Not the Warden part, specifically, but _getting the Void out of the Chantry_ . Not having to be a bloody _Templar._

Duncan simply stood there silently as Knight-Commander Glavin listed everything wrong with Alistair -- _he’ll shame your order, he can’t hold his tongue, he’s not worthy_ \-- and maybe Alistair _wasn’t_ worthy, but Duncan just stood there with a placid look on his face until the Knight-Commander finished.

Duncan turned back to Alistair.

“Let me make my offer formal. I, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, extend the invitation for you to join our ranks,” he said, extending a hand.

_He doesn’t care_ , Alistair thought, dizzy with the speed everything was going. But he grinned his usual grin, and reached for Duncan’s hand -- and a woman’s voice cut through the din.

“ _Absolutely not._ ”

Ah. The Grand Cleric. Alistair’s hand froze in mid-air. He’d almost forgotten she was visiting. She _charged_ forward, her skirts practically billowing around her. She wasn’t an old woman, but she wasn’t young, either. Really, she was the word “bitter” personified.

“Grand Cleric Elemina,” Duncan said, bowing to her as if he were made of pure politeness.

“He is not _fit_ for service among the Grey Wardens. As he is unfit to be a Templar,” she sneered.

Meaning: _we don’t want this bastard, and you won’t, either._

“If he is unfit to be a Templar, then would it not be better to let him seek his own path elsewhere?” Duncan asked mildly.

The look on Grand Cleric Elemina’s face could have curdled fresh milk. Alistair stared at her, busily committing it to memory.

“I _forbid_ this, Duncan of the Grey Wardens,” she declared, with all the authority the Chantry bestowed upon her. “This… _boy_ will _not_ be joining your order.”

“Then I hereby invoke the Grey Wardens’ Right of Conscription, and I remove this young man into my custody,” Duncan said, casually handing Alistair a bottle of elfroot potion.

Oh, no, _this_ was the face Alistair wanted to commit to memory. Grand Cleric Elemina was practically _purple_ with rage. _Priceless._ Alistair drank the potion _at_ her, smiling around the lip of the bottle.

“Go, and get your things,” Duncan said once Alistair was finished. “Your new life awaits.”

He ran off too quickly for politeness, clanking in his armor all the way.

_A new life._ _A fresh start._ Maker. Someone actually _valued_ him for something. It had taken _nineteen years_ , but someone actually _cared_ . And maybe it was only because he was a decent fighter, but _oh,_ it meant… it meant _everything._ As Alistair hurriedly shoved his few belongings into the nearest bag -- which, on reflection, wasn’t even _his,_ but _who cares, I’m leaving anyway_ \-- he became _determined_ not to let the Grey Wardens down. Not to let Duncan down.

_I’ll do whatever it takes, I promise,_ he prayed. _Just… let me belong_ somewhere. _Please._

 


	5. Jowan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! I'm sorry I kept you waiting for this one. My two kiddos and I were sick all week, and I couldn't get this chapter revised in time.
> 
> Chapter Six should be up on Tuesday, as per usual! Thanks for reading!

* * *

 

Solona wasn’t in class that morning.

Jowan could see the worry etched into every line of First Enchanter Irving’s old and tired face. She was _supposed_ to be here; therefore, she _should_ be here. This wasn’t like a fancy school, where students could miss classes. The Circle was always a prison, and, as such, the jailors needed to know where you were at all times.

Technically, Irving should have called the Templars by now, to tell them Solona was missing. He hadn’t, and everyone in the classroom knew why.

This was _bad._

Even worse, this was a practical magic class. They were actually going to _cast_ some spells today; Irving had made a special challenge for them all. Solona had been looking forward to it just last night.

A loud clanking made its way down the hall, and a Templar stood in the doorframe. Jowan stared without quite meaning to… but this had to be about Solona. She _was_ his best friend, after all.

“My apologies, First Enchanter,” the Templar said. “Apprentice Amell is unwell today. I just escorted her to the infirmary.”

_Thank the bloody Maker._

This was the best possible outcome. This Templar was the one who liked Solona -- Callum, Colin, something like that. Whatever his name was. Jowan and Anders had a bet on when he first came to the Circle. He’d acted so stupid around Solona -- stumbling over his words, blushing, stammering, all of that -- that Jowan was half-convinced the Templar was Solona’s Voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anders had said. “Binding a mage and a templar as soulmates? The Maker wouldn’t be that cruel.”

Still, it was hard to argue when she spoke so quietly to him, her head inclined forward as if he were the only thing worth listening to. And he followed her with his eyes wherever she went. Jowan was reasonably certain he’d win a sovereign out of it.

Alas. He was wrong. But not _far_ wrong. Solona had told him later that her Voice _was_ , in fact, a Templar. Just… not _this_ one. Jowan maintained that was worth a few silver, at least; Anders disagreed. Solona just laughed at them both.

She was just _ill,_ was all. And even if she _wasn’t_ , this Templar wouldn’t do anything to rat her out. He was too far gone for that; everyone could see it.

“Would you take Apprentice Amell’s work to her after class, Jowan?” Irving asked, snapping Jowan’s attention back to the present.

“Yes, First Enchanter. I’d be happy to.”

 

* * *

 

Solona was sitting on a cot in the infirmary, staring blankly but not really looking at anything. She didn't so much as turn her head when Jowan came in. She hadn't even done her hair up in that braid he'd seen every day for the last decade.

“Unwell,” Ser Whats-his-face had said. If that wasn’t a fucking _understatement._

“Hey,” Jowan said, sitting down on the cot next to her. “You missed Irving’s challenge. He lit a book on fire and we had to put it out without damaging it. You’d have loved it.”

Solona said nothing. She didn’t even seem to notice he was there.

“I -- I brought your work for you? It’s a chapter of reading from _In Pursuit of Knowledge._ Genitivi again. I know you like his writing, though.”

She continued to stare off into space, as if he weren’t even there.

Now truly panicked, Jowan started to look at her -- was there any sign of a brand? -- but no. Nothing on the forehead that he could see, though the Circle here seemed to favor the upper right arm, and hers was covered.

“If you can hear me, can you, I don’t know, blink twice or something? It’s starting to get a little creepy.”

She didn’t blink twice, but she did look in his direction. That was something, even if her eyes didn’t quite focus on him.

“Look,” Jowan said, dropping his voice, “I don’t know what’s happened, but I _do_ know what _will_ happen if you don’t pull yourself together and at least _act_ like yourself. And I can’t _help_ you if I don’t know what’s _wrong._ ”

Probably the wrong way to go about it, but he wasn’t the healer. She was. Anders was. But Anders had fucked off somewhere again, and she couldn’t seem to heal _herself,_ so. There they were. It didn’t work, anyway. She just blinked at him again, as if she knew him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Wait.

Jowan put his hands on both sides of Solona’s head and moved it briskly from side to side. She was _trying_ to look at him, he knew that much, but her eyes kept drifting.  Dizzy and not terribly responsive. _Shit._

“You… haven’t gone and done something _stupid_ , have you?” he asked, _pianissimo._

Solona was blinking hard, as if to clear her field of vision. Then, when that didn’t work, she rubbed at her eyes.

Shit shit _shit._

“Where in the _Void_ did you get lyrium, and _why_ did you take that much?”

Solona’s eyes finally started to _focus_ on him at last -- and she looked away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Jowan hissed, dropping to a knee in front of her. “I’m _not_ letting up until you tell me what’s happened.”

“He’s gone,” she said, almost Tranquil.

“Who’s gone?” Jowan demanded, but quietly. He still didn’t want the Templars to hear, after all.

“My Voice. He’s gone.”

Sweet _fuck_ , Jowan was an asshole. This was what _grief_ looked like. Nothing else could have possessed straight-laced Solona Amell to go hunting for lyrium, so that she could stay longer in the Fade.

“How? Do you know? I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t ask, but --”

“The Grey Wardens. I think. They recruited him and now he’s gone,” she said, her voice dropping to a heartbreaking whisper. “I can’t find him.”

People said awful things about the Wardens. Jowan, admittedly, knew less than Solona did about… well, almost everything, really. But it hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice that people who joined the Wardens were often never heard from again. It didn’t surprise Jowan that Solona’s Voice might have died becoming one.

_His_ Voice was a Chantry initiate, of all horrible things, but she was alive and well, and one day, Jowan might find her. But Solona didn’t have that option anymore.

“I -- I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Jowan stifled the strangled, heartbroken noise in his throat. He climbed up on the cot beside her and ran his hand up and down her back, trying to be comforting. Maybe it worked, because she laid her head on his shoulder, just letting herself _be_ .  He probably needed to go somewhere, the Templars would be looking, but right now, he would have fought anyone who said anything, because, damn it all, _she needed to grieve._ The Templars took so much from them, they would _not_ take this from the girl who was all but his sister.

Eventually, her breathing evened out, and he stole a glance over at her. Her hair had fallen in messy waves across her face, and her eyes were gently closed. She was asleep. Thank the Maker, she looked like she needed it. Jowan just hoped she actually got some _rest_. And… maybe she’d find her Voice in the Fade and it would be all right.

She didn’t. And it wasn’t.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Jowan tried to cover it up, acting like he was stressed, too -- _oh, sorry, don’t you know, Irving keeps us so busy_ _\--_ but even if it worked at all, it wouldn’t work forever. If she didn’t change _back_ to who she really _was…_ They could make her Tranquil for _real_. And the thought of that _horrified_ him.

Still. He hoped. For himself, for his friend. He dreamed of the life he and Lily would share one day, when he got out of this tower and found her. Maybe he could persuade Solona to come with them, wouldn’t that be great, and she’d find a way to be happy, even without her Voice. He hoped and dreamed, building what his mother would have called “castles in the air” for all three of them.

But that wouldn’t _happen_ if his best friend didn’t come back from the bowels of grief. He didn’t know what to bloody _do._ This wasn’t his _thing._ Anders and Solona were the soft touches, cooling hands on swollen skin, or warm, white light seeping into a wound to knit someone back together. If -- _Maker forbid_ \-- it had been his Voice dead, Jowan had no doubt that Solona would have known what to say and do to ease his pain.

Jowan? Had _no idea_.

… Well. Maybe he had _one_.

It took him a long, _long_ time to build up the courage to talk to Irving. By this point, even the unflappable First Enchanter was as worried as any of the rest of them were. Jowan stayed for a bit after class, as the two of them watched Solona mechanically pack her bag and leave without a word to either of them.

“What troubles you, Jowan?” Irving asked, playing the kind schoolmaster. Jowan didn’t trust it for a minute… but _Solona_ did. And that’s what mattered.

“Something’s wrong, you have to know that. Solona is just -- empty. It’s like there’s nothing in her. I… I just want to help, First Enchanter, and I don’t know _how_ ,” Jowan said.

“It would be best if you’d begin at the beginning. What happened, exactly?”

Jowan bit his lip. Voices were more than forbidden; they were _denied_ . The only reason anyone had even _heard_ of them was a whispered, half-remembered rumor passed from bunk to bunk in the apprentice quarters. Telling Irving could get Solona in a _lot_ of trouble.

Telling Irving could also get Solona some _help._

“Her Voice, ser,” Jowan replied, his voice gone soft and reverent. “He’s dead.”

Irving didn’t seem surprised. Though he did quirk an eyebrow. _That figures_ , Jowan thought, exasperated.

“How do you know this?” Irving asked.

“She told me,” Jowan said. “He was recruited into the Grey Wardens, she thinks. And now he’s gone from the Fade.”

Irving nodded, seemingly lost in thought. The pause stretched an awkwardly long time, and Jowan was beginning to wonder if he should make his excuses and leave, when Irving returned to himself.

“Mention this to no one else. Not _even_ to Solona,” he said. “I will see that the matter is taken care of. Thank you, Jowan.”

Jowan knew a dismissal when he heard one. But _Maker’s balls_ Irving was _frustrating._ He’d take care of it himself? What was there to _take care of?_ Solona needed _help_ , not vague promises and a best friend who couldn’t even _bloody_ talk to her about the _bloody_ problem!

Not for the first time, Jowan _desperately_ wished he were strong enough to handle things _himself_ , without having to rely on anyone else for help. Not Solona, not Anders, and not _bloody Irving_.  

It was in this mood, in this hallway, that Senior Enchanter Uldred found him.

And, unbeknownst to Jowan, his castles in the air began to crumble.

 


	6. Cullen

As he stood on guard in the hallway outside the First Enchanter’s office, ignoring the muffled argument from within, Cullen still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing.

He’d followed protocol, of course. Taking her to the infirmary was the textbook response. Templars were not supposed to make judgments on the health of apprentices unless there was reason for suspicion. And no one had ever been less suspicious than Amell. Even still, he’d been able to sense the lyrium on her before he actually _saw_ the state she was in. The scent in the air was familiar enough by now that it _alone_ could have told him everything he needed to know.

Well… maybe not _everything._ He still didn’t know _how_ she got it or _why_ she’d used it. A better Templar would have asked. Would have rooted around, interrogated Jowan, tried to figure out the cause behind all of this. Good apprentices don’t just swallow a sub-lethal dose of lyrium for no reason, and _none_ of the possible reasons were good.

Still. She’d earned Cullen’s trust a long time ago.

His first day on the job, and he’d been _boiling_ in his armor. Ferelden wasn’t the warmest of climates, but it could certainly heat up at midsummer. He’d been desperate to avoid anyone’s notice at all, when someone handed him something. His breath caught and the rest of the world ceased its motion once those big blue eyes locked on his.

“Ice rune,” Amell had whispered. “Put it in your gauntlet. It’s Ser Carroll’s idea, from a while ago. It will help keep you cool.”

Cullen hadn’t wanted to trust it, had _known_ that mages often tried to trick new Templars, even just as pranks, if not for anything more sinister… and yet…

He’d put the ice rune in his gauntlet anyway. He’d been deliciously cool the rest of the day. (And, not to put too fine a point on it, he’d had that same rune in his gauntlet every hot summer day since.) Turned out it _had_ been Carroll’s idea, and half the Templars in the Tower had runes in their gauntlets. No one had told him because they’d all assumed someone else had.

Cullen was grateful to Apprentice Amell from that point onward. They spoke frequently, if all too briefly each time. He couldn’t say he knew her _well_ , exactly. They certainly weren’t _friends._ Couldn’t be. He was a Templar and she was a mage, and -- well, _anything_ happening between them shouldn’t ever have entered into his head.

It did anyway. Her frame was just on the right side of too curvy, and her eyes often sparkled in a way that Cullen hadn’t seen -- or perhaps, hadn’t cared to notice -- in most other girls. She flipped her long black braid over her shoulder at dramatically appropriate moments, almost as punctuation.

And it may have been _stupid_ and _dangerous_ , as well as hopeless, but he couldn’t help but imagine running his hands across her full cheeks, along her jaw, to cup her chin in the sweetest and gentlest of kisses. He didn’t dare acknowledge anything darker, more primal, or even more intimate. Amell, in his mind, was a china doll, not to be sullied or broken.

(His dreams were another story; best not to speak of those.)

And so, at this point, he couldn’t tell if not pursuing this obvious lead, in letting Amell off the hook and _not_ telling the other Templars about the lyrium, was the right thing to do… or if it had been fueled by this pointless, daydreamy infatuation with her.

A better Templar would have told. He wasn’t sure what a better _man_ would have done. Shouldn’t those two be the same thing?

The dull, quiet arguing inside the First Enchanter’s office became louder and more intelligible; Cullen wished it hadn’t. Irving and Greagoir had been at it for at least an hour. Maybe more. Cullen had lost track of the time. It didn’t matter until someone came to relieve him, anyway.

“Irving, it is _not_ up for discussion! Even _my_ people have noticed! We _need_ to get to the bottom of this!” Knight-Commander Greagoir shouted.

“Have you considered that it may be nothing serious? Teenagers are prone to occasional mood swings, you know,” Irving answered, as unflappable as ever.

“She doesn’t _eat_ , she barely _speaks --_ it’s been this way for _six months_ and you want to pass it off as a teenage _phase?_ Need I remind you that your apprentice _is and always has been a mage?_ Or that drastic changes in behavior often mean _dangerous things_ in Circles?”

Cullen could almost _see_ the Knight-Commander through the closed door, pacing wildly and pinching the bridge of his nose. There was a slam, as if something heavy hit a table -- or perhaps a desk.

“The girl’s Harrowing. Is. Tomorrow,” Greagoir declared. “Whether _you_ like it or not. Something is _wrong_ here, Irving, and I will not stand by and allow her to be a foothold for demons in this Circle!”

“You push her too quickly, Greagoir,” Irving’s voice came through the door, softer than Cullen would have expected. “If she is not ready, and she fails because she went through her Harrowing too soon --”

“You would rather risk _possession_ than --”

“She is just a girl, Greagoir,” Irving insisted. “Mage or otherwise, _she is still a girl.”_

“A girl who could -- this is getting us nowhere,” Greagoir sighed, exasperated. _“Her Harrowing is tomorrow.”_

The Knight-Commander stalked out of First Enchanter Irving’s office like some kind of beast.

“Cullen!” he barked.

“Ser?” Cullen asked, starting and sounding surprised like Greagoir had shaken him out of his own thoughts.

“There is a Harrowing tomorrow night. You’re to be there.”

“Yes, ser.”

Greagoir started to storm off… then paused. He walked back over to Cullen.

“I’m going to give you an assignment,” he said quietly.

That could only mean one thing.

_Shit._

“Yes, ser,” Cullen said, his face implacable.

 

* * *

 

He’d found her in the library, as per usual. He couldn’t warn her about what was coming. That was forbidden. But he could, perhaps, try to get her to open up. To be like she used to be.

(A secret, sinful part of him wished she would confide her troubles to him; the rest of him knew that was foolish.)

She was sitting at her usual table, with her sketchbook open in front of her. Instead of scribbling away as she usually did, she was drawing aimless circles, looping endlessly around themselves. She wasn’t even looking at her work.

Greagoir was right. Something was definitely wrong here.

He cleared his throat, hoping she was just daydreaming. Maybe that would snap her out of it. All it did, though, was draw her attention to him.

Cullen flushed a brilliant red and mumbled something that sounded apologetic. Normally that would have made a soft smile appear on her face, the one he secretly liked the best. This time, she looked at him with something akin to sympathy. Or regret, maybe. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her eyes flicked away almost as soon as her gaze had landed on him.

He took a furtive glance around the library. No one else was in this corner. If he spoke quietly, he wouldn’t be overheard.

He took a few halting steps toward her, not entirely sure what he was going to say.

“Is -- is everything all right?” he asked.

Her eyes snapped back up toward him.

“I… well. No. Not really,” she said.

“Is there… anything I can do?”

“Right now? No,” she said. “And thank you.”

He understood: _you’ve already helped more than you ought to._ Cullen smiled at her, and Andraste preserve him, she gave him a small, fragile smile back. Flustered, he rubbed at the back of his neck, and she returned to her drawing, starting a proper sketch this time.

Maker, was he ever _hopeless_.

 

* * *

 

The Harrowing chamber was large, and for good reason. It needed to house one apprentice, one First Enchanter, and a full guard of templars, with enough room to fight if it came down to it. It didn’t make him any happier about being here, though.

As he saw Amell paraded in, her hair still mussed and her eyes still hooded from sleep, his heart gave a treacherous lurch. He knew why Greagoir had asked this of him. He _knew_. Perhaps not about the lyrium, though who could tell with Greagoir? But certainly about the rest of it. Nothing escaped the Knight-Commander, and so his foolish infatuation with Solona Amell couldn’t have gone unremarked forever. It was a test to see where Cullen’s loyalty truly was: the Chantry or the girl. And while Cullen’s chest went tight when he was near her, he served the Chantry. He’d sworn himself to this life, and he would keep his vow, whatever it took.

Besides, if she became an abomination, he would need to protect his other charges from her. He’d save her from the demon the only way he could. Perhaps a mage’s spirit could rest, if the demon was excised. No one knew. Cullen liked to think so anyway, keeping the thought safely hidden in the corners of his mind.

… Amell wouldn’t become an abomination. Right?

As he saw her take the lyrium and sink slowly into the embrace of the Fade, he became less certain. Over the last few months, he’d seen her go from a bright, sunshiny girl to a whisper of a woman. Even her smiles, rare as they had become, were sad now. And, to make matters worse, her only friend had abandoned her, Cullen thought, half-angry at Jowan. _Cullen_ couldn’t do anything but exchange pleasantries with her at most, but _Jowan_ could have done _something_. Instead, he spent all his time in the Chantry. Cullen wondered what he could possibly have to pray for that was more important than his friend.

But… _Amell_ wouldn’t become an _abomination_. She’d get through her Harrowing just fine, and Cullen would only have been here as a formality. No matter how different she’d been lately. No matter the incident with the lyrium and hardly speaking to anyone… They’d talked. It had helped. She’d been more like herself today, it would be fine.

Right?

The Harrowing Chamber was silent, save for the breathing of the assembled Templars, the First Enchanter, and Amell. Plus the occasional _clank_ of armor as a Templar moved, but that hardly counted.

Knight-Commander Greagoir seemed oddly reluctant to meet the First Enchanter’s eyes today. Perhaps he was regretting this? Looking down at Amell, she did seem… small. Young. She was, what, seventeen? She was petite, so that might have had something to do with it. Her head came up to the middle of Cullen’s chest, and while Cullen was fairly tall, she was also just _short._

… Amell was capable, though, no matter how small she looked. Or how fragile and delicate she seemed while she was sleeping. Or how _gentle_ he knew her to be, personally.

No. She would be fine. She’d kill the demon. _(His heart shivered from the thought of Amell killing anything.)_ She wouldn’t become an abomination. She would be fine. She would be _fine._ Cullen tried _so hard_ not to stare, and yet his eyes were drawn to her, again and again, like an apple falling to the ground. He _had_ to look. He _had_ to know.

Amell gave a shuddering breath, and color returned to her cheeks. The First Enchanter visibly relaxed, and even the tension around the Knight-Commander’s eyes faded just a bit.

_Thank the Maker._

Cullen watched as another Templar carried her to her bunk in the apprentice girls’ dormitory, safe and _whole_. He let out a long, relieved breath, and he caught Knight-Commander Greagoir’s eyes. The look he saw there was… difficult to read. Some cross-section between pride and pity. Cullen nodded at the Knight-Commander, knowing it would be the only acknowledgement between them. Mechanically, he walked to the Templars’ dorm, ready to steal a few hours of sleep before he had to begin his duties for the day.

She was safe. And now, so was he.

 


	7. Solona

When Solona came to, she realized two things: first, that she had a  _ splitting _ headache. And second, that Jowan was gone. She looked around and saw Lily -- Jowan’s Voice, Maker help her -- already being escorted out by the Templars.  Jowan had misled her -- misled them  _ both _ . Irving was so intent on making sure the Chantry had to punish someone -- his own need for vengeance -- that he failed to see the real, human suffering of Jowan, of Lily, even of Solona herself.

_ The true dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust… pride, _ the demon at her Harrowing had said. That  _ careless trust _ had done for Jowan and Lily. If only she’d never said anything to Irving. Somewhere, she was sure, the demon was laughing at her.

Irving groaned as he tried to lift himself up. Solona cast a general but minor healing spell, just to give him enough strength to stand.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Where is Greagoir?”

The Knight-Commander was also staggering to his feet, cursing about Jowan.

“I knew it… blood magic. But to overcome so many,” Greagoir stormed. “I never thought him capable of such power.”

“None of us expected this,” Irving agreed. “Are you all right, Greagoir?”

“As good as can be expected, given the circumstances! If you had let me act sooner, this would not have happened! Now we have a blood mage on the loose and no way to track him down!” Greagoir all but shouted.

“And  _ you _ ,” Greagoir stalked over toward Solona. “You were in a repository full of magics that were locked away  _ for a reason. _ Your antics have made a mockery of this Circle! Ah… what are we to do with you?”

Truth be told, some form of punishment was  _ certainly _ in order. Not for entering the repository, but for betraying her best friend and his Voice. She didn’t deserve to have a friend again, not ever. Whether Jowan was a blood mage or not was irrelevant. He’d counted on her and she’d betrayed him.

“She was working under my orders,” Irving said. He would support her to the end, Solona knew, since she’d proven her loyalty to the Circle.  _ Maker _ . The thought alone made her  _ sick _ .

“And this improves the situation?” Greagoir turned his ire back to Irving. “The phylactery chamber is forbidden to all, save you and me!”

“I had my reasons,” Irving said, folding his arms. Stubborn old man.

“You’re not all-knowing, Irving! You don’t know how much influence the blood mage might have had. How are we to deal with this?”

“Knight-Commander, if I may,” another voice cut in. It was Duncan, the Commander of the Grey Wardens she’d met earlier.

“I’m not just looking for mages to join the king’s army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens,” Duncan said. “Irving spoke highly of Miss Amell, and I would like her to join the Warden ranks.”

_...what? _

“What?” Greagoir thundered at Irving. “You’ve promised him a new Grey Warden?”

“She has served the Circle well. She would make an excellent Grey Warden,” Irving said.

For her part, Solona was on Greagoir’s side. What was even  _ happening _ right now?

“We look for dedication in our recruits,” Duncan explained. “Fighting the darkspawn requires such dedication, often at the expense of all else.”

“I object. You say she operated under your instructions, Irving, but I  _ do not trust her. _ I must investigate this issue, and I will  _ not _ release this mage to the Grey Warden,” Greagoir concluded, with all the certainty of a man rarely refused.

“Greagoir, mages are needed.  _ This _ mage is needed,” Duncan said. “Worse things plague this world than blood mages -- you know that. I take this young mage under my wing and I bear all responsibility for her actions.”

Solona looked up at Duncan -- who was easily a head taller than she was -- just… shocked. The only other person who had ever defended her like this was Irving, but Duncan barely knew her. How could he be so certain that she was everything he thought?

“This mage does  _ not _ deserve a place in the Order!” Greagoir growled.

“Why?” Irving asked. “Do we not reward service? Solona has served the Circle well.”

She… she was getting out of the Tower. She’d find out what had happened to Alistair. She’d be able to actually  _ use _ her magic, to -- to help people and heal them and, and just  _ everything. _

She’d be the Grey Warden that Alistair had never gotten to be.

Was this why Irving had asked her to tell him what Jowan was up to? So she could go and be a Grey Warden? Was  _ this _ his game? Had he schemed this all up for her? It was wrong to do that to Jowan and Lily, even if it  _ was _ for her, but part of her couldn’t help wondering anyway. Jowan and Anders had always said that Irving was more cunning than Solona had ever given him credit for -- to her, Irving was the closest thing she’d had to a real, loving father. She’d only wanted to see the best in him.

And so, at this, her last moment in the Circle, Solona did what she had wanted to do since she was a child -- and she threw her arms around Irving’s neck. Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t dare shed, not in front of Greagoir, but she held him tight. After a long moment, he returned the embrace, clearly as emotional as she was.

“You have an opportunity few even dream of,” Irving whispered to her. “Do not squander it.”

“Thank you for everything, First Enchanter,” she whispered back before breaking away.

Solona cuffed the tears away from her eyes as Duncan led her out of the room, to the main hall. To those doors she hadn’t seen opened in years. The sunlight that streamed in was so bright it blinded her for a minute. Blinking to clear her eyes, Solona stood on the threshold and paused.

Was she really going to do this? 

Was she really  _ capable _ of doing this?

Steeling herself, Solona took that first step. Then another. Then a few more as Duncan led her to the boat waiting there for them both. He exchanged pleasantries with the boatman, but Solona heard none of it.

She saw the sky reflected in the water. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily by, disturbed by the ripples the oars made as they moved. After a few moments, she looked at the  _ actual _ sky, and not its mirror image. It had been ten years since she had looked up and seen anything other than  _ ceiling. _ There were  _ clouds _ and the  _ sun _ and it was  _ blue  _ and  _ big _ and a breeze rustled her hair. There was  _ noise _ , the creak of the oars on the boat, the splash as they went in and out of the water,  _ birdsong _ , just… just  _ everything. _

Before she was done noticing things, the boat stopped at the other end of the lake.

Duncan got out, then extended a hand to her. This was it. The moment of truth. If she got out of this boat, there really was no turning back.

But then… did she even  _ want _ to go back?

She placed her hand in Duncan’s, letting him help her out of the boat. She stumbled anyway, getting the hem of her robe wet in the process. Duncan smiled gently at her and led on.

They traveled to Ostagar in almost complete silence, but it was  _ companionable _ silence. Solona was just so…  _ interested _ in everything around her -- it was  _ autumn _ and the  _ leaves _ and the  _ plants _ and the  _ small animals _ … it was overwhelming.

In the quieter moments in her bedroll at night, Solona was grateful for Duncan’s patience. He was allowing her to get her bearings, and she knew it. After everything that had happened on that last day in the Circle, she needed that space more than she’d have thought. Now, she was able to look back on it all with a steely, almost emotionless distance.

She had lost her Voice, and she’d started to mourn. She’d felt her friends’ (Jowan and Cullen both) worry about her, and she’d felt guilty. She’d gone to her Harrowing, and she’d been terrified. She’d passed her Harrowing, and she’d been relieved. She had met Duncan, and she’d been determined to join him, for Alistair’s sake. She’d heard Jowan’s plight -- that he was going to be made Tranquil -- and she’d been outraged. She’d gone to First Enchanter Irving for help and been conned into giving up Jowan’s plans, and she felt horrified. She’d found out her best friend was a blood mage, and she’d felt… just… sick. 

And then she’d been recruited into the Grey Wardens, and she didn’t even know  _ what _ to feel anymore, except that all this back-and-forth of emotion was going to give her whiplash.

Within a week, they were in sight of Ostagar. And it was -- big. Very, very big.

Solona must have said that out loud without meaning to, because Duncan chuckled from beside her.

“The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It’s fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within that forest. The king’s forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. There are only a few Grey Wardens within Ferelden at the moment, but all of us are here. This Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall.”

A man in golden armor strode toward them. For half a moment, Solona was convinced it was King Maric. But it couldn’t be; he was dead. It had to be his trueborn son, King Cailan. As he and Duncan talked, Solona scrutinized his features, looking for a resemblance to her lost Voice. It was the nose, of all things, that sold her. They had the same exact nose. A small, petty part of her thought that Alistair had been more handsome, even if Cailan  _ was  _ king.

“I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious!” King Cailan said… then turned his attention to Solona for the first time. “The other Wardens told me you’d found a promising recruit. I take it this is she?”

“Allow me to introduce you, Your Majesty.”

“No need to be so formal, Duncan. We’ll be shedding blood together, after all,” King Cailan smiled at them both. “Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?”

“I am Solona, Your Majesty.”

“Pleased to meet you!” and it sounded like he meant it, of all the strange things, “The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one, am glad to help them.”

Solona smiled back at him.

“I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help us in the coming battle?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And… and afterward as well. I’ve begun to specialize as a healer.”

“Excellent. We have too few mages here.” he said. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks.”

“You’re too kind, Your Majesty,” she said, falling back on politeness. But Solona hoped it was true.

“Your uncle sends his greetings, and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week,” Duncan cut in, sounding for all the world like… well, an uncle, offering what he knew was unwelcome advice.

King Cailan laughed. “Eamon just wants in on the glory! We’ve won two battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different.”

“You sound very confident of that,” Solona offered, as diplomatically as she could.

“ _ Over _ -confident, some would say. Right, Duncan?”

“Your Majesty, I’m not certain the Blight can be ended as… quickly as you might wish.”

“I’m not even sure this is a true Blight! There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an archdemon.”

“Disappointed, Your Majesty?” Duncan said dryly.

“I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god. Ah, but I suppose this will have to do.” King Cailan said. “I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell… Grey Wardens.”

Solona and Duncan both bowed as the king made his exit.

“What the king said is true,” Duncan said. “They’ve won several battles against the darkspawn here.”

“He didn’t seem to take the darkspawn very seriously,” Solona answered in a near-whisper.

“True,” Duncan agreed. “Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

“Why not?” Solona asked. “He seems to regard the Grey Wardens highly.”

“Yet not enough to wait for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais. He believes our legend alone makes him invulnerable. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can, and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay.”

“What do you need me to do?” Solona asked. She didn’t know what this Joining entailed, but it would probably be best to get it over with.

“Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it’s time to summon the other recruits.”

Did… did he just say Alistair?

“Duncan, I’m -- I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I’m still… a little overwhelmed.”

Duncan blinked, his eyes scanning her with true concern. Still, he repeated himself, and  _ yes _ , Solona had heard correctly. She thanked him, and he left her standing on the bridge to the camp proper.

Alistair… was  _ alive _ . And he was  _ here _ . How,  _ how _ was that even  _ possible?  _ She hadn’t been able to find him in the Fade in  _ months _ , so unless he hadn’t  _ slept  _ in that long, this shouldn’t  _ be  _ possible.

She pinched herself. No, she wasn’t dreaming.

He was alive. And he was here. In the same place that she was. Maker, how did she look? Had the wind and the camping for a week completely wrecked her? She quickly untied and re-did her long braid, hands shaking. It probably looked worse than it had before, but  _ he was alive and he was here and… _ and this was more terrifying than leaving the Tower could  _ ever _ have been.

Deciding on a pace somewhere between as quick as her hopes and as slow as her fears, she walked into the camp. One of the Senior Enchanters from the Circle caught her eye, and they had a quick talk about darkspawn, but she paid little attention. She was looking for a tall young man with red-blond hair and  _ those shoulders. _

“Hmm, this isn’t good,” she heard from somewhere off to her left. “I’d hate to waste such a promising member of the breed. Say! Are you the new Grey Warden? I could use some help.”

Solona reminded herself that she  _ was _ here to help people, and she curtailed her search. From the barking and the stronger-than-usual scent of  _ dog _ , she assumed she was near the kennels.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“This is a mabari,” the kennelmaster said. “Smart breed, and strong. His owner died in the last battle, and the poor hound swallowed darkspawn blood. I have medicine that might help, but I need him muzzled first.”

Solona looked into the kennel and saw the dog. He was lying on his side, breathing heavily. The poor baby.

“I’ll give it a shot,” she said.

“Go in the pen and let him smell you. We’ll know right away if he’ll respond.”

The kennelmaster opened the small gate for her, and she stepped inside. He handed her the muzzle over the top of the fence. And the dog... t he dog was obviously unwell. At the sound of her footsteps, he lifted his head -- just a few inches -- and looked at her. From the slow but desperate scrabbling of his feet, he probably wanted to get away.

“Hey, boy,” Solona whispered. “It’s going to be all right. I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.”

The poor dog tried to focus his gaze on her. Solona saw a great deal of intelligence in those big brown eyes. And something just --  _ clicked _ \-- into place. The dog stopped his scrabbling and went still, eyes locked on her.

“That’s a good boy,” she said, calm and gentle. She fitted the muzzle around his nose and mouth -- but not  _ too _ tightly. He whimpered softly.

The kennelmaster told Solona about an herb that could save the dog. If she had to ask Duncan to let her go into the Wilds  _ alone _ to get it, she would get it. She promised the kennelmaster that she would try her best, and he  _ beamed _ at her.

After one last, long look at the poor dog, Solona continued her search to find Alistair. Up the stairs, along to the right… and… 

_ Oh.  _ There he was.

A stupidly sappy grin spread across her face, because it was  _ true _ , he was  _ fine. _ She’d figure out  _ how _ later, but for now… 

Solona straightened her posture, patted down any flyaway hairs, and walked confidently up to the man who already, unknowingly, held her heart.

“What her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me!” said a mage Solona hadn’t noticed was there. “I am busy helping the Grey Wardens, by the king’s orders, I might add!”

“Should I have asked her to write a note?’ Alistair asked, with all the sass Solona had ever expected of him.

“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

“Yes, _ I _ was harassing  _ you _ by delivering a message.”

“Your glib tongue does you no credit.”

“And here I thought we were getting on so well! I was even going to name one of my children after you: the grumpy one.”

“Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must.”

“You know,” Alistair said, turning his attention to Solona for the first time  _ ever _ , “one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

A strange sort of lightness bubbled up from inside her somewhere, and she laughed, really _ laughed,  _ for the first time in… oh,  _ ages _ . And she suddenly realized -- there was no one watching her to make sure she was behaving within appropriate boundaries. There was no one to tell her to be quiet, to sit still, to move slowly, to keep her hands where they could be seen. There was no one to stop her from running, from jumping, from  _ shouting _ if she wanted to.

She was so far away from the Tower that she couldn’t even  _ see _ it anymore, and no one would ever make her go back.  _ She never had to go back there, not ever again.  _

She flashed Alistair her widest grin, tears in her eyes, feeling more like herself than she had in  _ forever _ . And, Maker bless him, he smiled back.


	8. Alistair

It had been  _ ages _ since someone had laughed at one of his jokes. Mostly he just got blank stares or exasperated noises. It was good though, wasn’t it? Alistair had been concerned that he hadn’t brought his A-game today.

The girl in front of him didn’t look  _ familiar _ , exactly, but… he didn’t know, there was --  _ something _ . She had one of those faces, he supposed. Or maybe it was the hair… Just on the right side of too curvy, black hair, big blue eyes -- something about her was familiar in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Just… she looked right, somehow. Which sounded ridiculous, on reflection, but it was true. She just looked  _ right.  _

“Wait, we haven’t met, have we?” he asked, suddenly concerned that maybe he  _ did _ know her and he’d just forgotten. “I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage.”

The girl looked down at her robes with the large Circle insignia about the hips, over her shoulder at her  _ very obvious _ staff, then finished it off with a look leveled directly at him.

“No,” she deadpanned. “This is my elaborately-carved walking stick.”

That startled a laugh out of Alistair, which got her laughing along with him. A sense of humor? He liked her already.

“You’re Alistair, right?”

She… knew his name. Huh.

“I, um. Duncan sent me,” she clarified, suddenly blushing. “He said it’s time to summon the other recruits.”

“ _Other_ recruits--Oh! You must be the new one, from the Circle of Magi. I should have recognized you right away, I apologize.”

_ That  _ must be why she looked familiar. He’d been looking for a young woman of her description all day. Not -- not like  _ that _ , of course, he was just… keeping an eye out. So that he’d know when Duncan got back. Nothing odd about that at all.

“Recognized me?” she asked, tipping her head slightly to one side.

“Duncan sent word ahead,” Alistair explained.

“Oh, no, of course he did, I was  _ there _ ,” she mumbled, more to herself than to him. “I’m sorry, this is all just…” she trailed off, looking for the right word, “big. Very, very big.”

A warm feeling of sympathy bloomed in Alistair's chest. He knew how disorienting it could be, going from a highly-regimented place like the Circle or the Chantry to the Grey Wardens. Granted, Alistair's experience had been mostly positive, but she'd _just got here._  She looked a bit like a cat set adrift in the middle of a lake: not really sure how she’d got there and not certain what to do now.

“Being out of the Circle must feel strange,” he agreed.

“Oh, it is. _Overwhelming,_ actually. I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about any of this. It was all very quick.”

“That sounds familiar," Alistair said with a smile in his voice. "Did Duncan conscript you?”

“Not quite. But he was… insistent. Argued with the Knight-Commander, actually.”

Alistair laughed, “He argued with a Grand Cleric when he recruited me.”

“A Grand Cleric? Really?” She gave him an inviting smile.

Oof. This was going to be an awkward, gut-punch sort of moment. They’d already established that she was a mage. And  _ he _ … well. He knew what  _ he _ was. But  _ she _ didn’t, so… this might not go so well. It hadn't gone well with the other mages he'd met since they came to Ostagar, after all. The thought was more upsetting than it should have been for a girl he’d known all of two minutes.

“Ah. Yes. I… was a Templar. Before. Well, not a  _ full _ Templar. I was recruited into the Grey Wardens before I took my final vows.”

Her smile shifted to something more… teasing. Not  _ that _ kind of teasing. The friendly kind. 

“Tell me: at what point in training do they cover the adorable blush-and-stammer thing? Seems like it’s done by every Templar ever.”

Alistair grinned. “Details of our training are kept secret, you know. I can’t go blabbing about them all over the place.”

“A shame,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “You could weaponize that. It’s a hitherto unknown talent, so it would be awhile before every mage became cynical and jaded enough to resist it.”

“Hmm, I don't know," he paused, pretending to consider it. "I’m just wondering how it would work against  _ darkspawn. _ ‘Er, hello? Could you, um, I don’t know, go away? We’re, ah, a bit busy right now, but we’ll work you into our schedule as soon as possible.’”

“And when they persist anyway, take it like they’re interested in you: ‘look, I’m flattered, but this would be, er, inappropriate? I. Um. I should go.’”

Alistair snorted. The joke wasn’t at his expense, exactly, and that could have gone  _ so _ much worse. The two of them began to walk together, at a leisurely pace, toward Duncan’s fire -- though Alistair couldn’t tell which of them was leading, exactly. The silence was stretching between the two of them, but he wasn’t used to making good impressions on people. He had  _ no idea _ what to do with this.

“So, I’m curious. Have you actually encountered darkspawn before?” he asked.

_ Great conversation topic there, Alistair. Well done. _

“No, I haven’t. Not yet, anyway,” she said.

“When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was. I can’t say I’m looking forward to encountering another.”

A look flashed behind her eyes. Alistair wasn’t sure what sort of a look it was -- he thought maybe it was sympathy? Concern? Something like that, anyhow.

“Well, I suppose I’ll see for myself soon enough,” she said, after a moment.

They arrived at Duncan’s fire, and it was time for introductions.

“This is Ser Jory, a knight from Redcliffe,” Alistair said. “And this is Daveth, a… fellow from Denerim.”

“Charmed, m’lady,” Daveth winked at her.

“And this is --”

Oh  _ shit. _ All that banter and he’d never gotten her name? Wonderful. He was certain Duncan had told him at one point, but it was just out of reach of his memory.

“Solona, from the Circle of Magi. Pleased to meet you all,” she said, mercifully sparing him any further awkwardness. 

Ser Jory looked visibly uncomfortable; he shifted slightly away from Solona, as if he’d just noticed she were made of bees. From the way her face fell, she knew why.

Alistair swallowed a sudden burst of anger at Jory. Her being a mage didn’t make any difference; they were all Grey Wardens. Well. They  _ would be _ Grey Wardens, if they survived the Joining. Maker, he hoped they  _all_  survived the Joining.

After getting some quick instructions from Duncan, the four of them entered the Korcari Wilds. It was odd for Alistair to be  _ leading _ anyone. He didn’t really know what he was doing. His armor felt both too big and too small for him, under the pinch of this responsibility. What if one of them got hurt on his watch? What if someone died? What would he say to Duncan then? ‘ _ Oh, sorry, I know we needed those new recruits to bolster our numbers so everyone doesn't die, but they all got eaten by wolves’? _

He heard a groan, a thud, and a soft but fervent, “Over here! Please!”

Solona, walking right next to him, nudged his shoulder and pointed forward. A soldier was literally  _ crawling _ to get to them. He was covered in blood, and clearly in pain.

“Well. He’s not half as dead as he looks, is he,” Alistair said. He wasn’t sure  _ what _ to say. Death wasn’t often so up-front, this wasn't a situation he often found himself in -- thankfully. (His Joining had been the first time he'd seen anyone die up close, and that had... not gone well.)

Solona dropped to her knees in front of the man, grasping his hand and looking directly into his eyes.

“Here, it’s all right,” Solona whispered, soothing. Her hands glowed with white light, which surged forward into the soldier’s body.

She was a  _ healer. _ Most of Alistair’s worry about injuries and death seeped out of him immediately. No _wonder_ Duncan recruited her. Magical healing was invaluable on any battlefield. She had her work cut out for her, that was certain. There’d be no end of injuries during a Blight.

“My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn,” he explained. “They came out of the  _ ground _ . Please, I have to return to camp.”

“You’ll be fine, just let me help,” Solona insisted, giving the man a once-over. She pushed more of that white light into him and helped him to his feet. He was listing slightly to the left, but he was upright.

“Do you want us to take you back?” she asked.

“No, I think I can do it. Thank you, Grey Wardens,” he said.

“Get one of the proper healers to look at you when you get there, please,” Solona replied.

He gave her a smile as wobbly as his legs and limped away in the direction they had come. Alistair’s mouth opened; he had so many questions to ask… but he was interrupted by Ser Jory.

“Alistair, did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!”

“Calm down, Ser Jory, we’ll be fine if we’re careful.”

“Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an entire  _ army _ in these forests!” Jory insisted.

“There are darkspawn about, but we’re in no danger of running into the bulk of the horde.”

“How do you know? I am not a coward… but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back,” Jory said, his voice starting to quaver a bit.

“Know this: all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here."

“You see, Ser Knight?” Daveth interrupted. “We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first!”

Solona snorted. Somehow that was charming.

“That is… reassuring?” Jory grumbled.

“That doesn’t mean I’m here to make this easy, however,” Alistair said. “So let’s get a move on.”

The bog was wet and cold. The mud and muck made every step go  _ squelch _ , and it smelled like decaying plant matter. But Alistair supposed none of that should be surprising. It  _ was  _ a bog. He led on, single-minded: let’s finish this and get back so I don’t have to be in charge anymore. 

He stopped for a moment when he heard a small  _ “oh” _ from Solona.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, half-turning to look at her. She was in the middle of picking a flower: white with a bright red center. How he’d missed seeing it, he’d never know.

“The -- ah, the kennel master asked me for this,” she said, blushing a red as vibrant as the middle of the flower. “He said it could cure one of the hounds he has. Poor dog swallowed darkspawn blood, and he’ll have to put it down otherwise.”

She took several of the flowers, carefully wrapping them in a handkerchief and placing them in her pack.

“I’m sorry,” she said when she was finished, smiling apologetically at Alistair in a way that made his breath catch.

“It’s -- it’s all right, let’s just keep going,” Alistair replied, flustered.

The four of them began to move forward at a reasonable pace. After a moment, the conversation began again.

“So, M’lady Mage,” Daveth started. “You’re a healer?”

“Yes? Sort of? I’m learning to be,” she explained. “Normally, once you become a mage of the Circle, you can choose to specialize. But I was only a full mage for -- what, six hours? -- when Duncan recruited me.”

“You were only in the Circle for  _ six hours ? _ _”_ Jory asked.

“Oh! No, I said that badly. There’s a hierarchy. At the bottom, you’ve got your apprentices -- which is what I was. That’s children and young adults. Then there’s the mages, then the  _ senior _ mages, the Enchanters, the Senior Enchanters, and the First Enchanter,” Solona said. “I’ve been in the Circle most of my life, but I only graduated from my apprenticeship recently.”

Alistair knew all of this, of course, but he kept quiet to hear her talk.

“So you healed that soldier with no formal training? That’s impressive,” Jory said.

“A friend of mine is a healer, and a good one at that. He taught me. But yes, I haven’t had any formal training so far. I’m hoping to fix that at some point.”

“So if my arm got chopped off, you could fix it?” Daveth asked.

“Well, um, no? It… it’s like this,” she said, fumbling for an explanation. “I use my mana to augment the body’s natural healing processes. So if you got a cut, I’d help your blood clot and your skin repair. If it was a deep cut, I’d help scar tissue develop. If you broke a bone, I could help it repair itself  _ after _ it was set, or it’d heal wrong. But I couldn’t make your arm re-grow if it was cut off, because that’s not something your body can already do.”

Alistair held a hand up, and his three companions stopped and were silent.

“Darkspawn,” he warned. “Be ready.”

Solona unholstered her staff, Jory readied his sword, and Daveth drew his daggers. The three men crept forward, leaving Solona a good distance behind them, when they saw the creatures.  _ Maker, _ they were ugly. Yes, horrifying; yes, twisted facsimiles of man; yes,  _ abominations _ in the non-Templar sense of the word. But most of all, they were just  _ ugly. _ Two hurlocks and two genlock archers. Not  _ too _ many darkspawn, but enough to get what they needed.

Alistair signaled to the others that he was ready to attack, and with a “For the Grey Wardens!” he charged forward. He saw Jory, cutting one of the creatures messily in half, and Daveth behind the one Alistair was attacking.

There was an odd light below the genlock archers, and then they were both still, frozen to the spot. Solona’s doing, perhaps? He could see bursts of frost hitting one of the archers; he had to assume it was from her staff.  But if they unfroze before Alistair was done with this hurlock, they’d shoot  _ her _ . Jory, apparently thinking along the same lines, charged forward to take the genlocks’ attention from Solona, and Alistair pummeled the hurlock with his shield. After one more quick stab from Daveth, the hurlock was dead.

Turning his attention to the genlocks, he saw that one of them was currently being killed by Jory, and the other was ready to fire an arrow at Solona  _ when a big fuck-off rock flew across the field. _ It looked like a vat of lamb stew had splattered all over the bog.

The three men stared at her, jaws open wide, as she caught up with them. She blinked when she saw their gobsmacked expressions.

“... What?”

No one had the heart to tell her.


	9. Solona

After a bit of fiddling about in the Wilds and collecting the three vials of darkspawn blood they needed, the four Wardens came upon the tower that was supposed to house the treaties Duncan had asked for.

“Hmm. That’s odd,” Alistair said.

Solona had to agree. It was less “tower,” more… “crumbling ruin.” Honestly, if Alistair hadn’t been so certain that this was the place Duncan had asked them to go, Solona might have questioned it: they were in a bog, in the middle of nowhere, by nothing particularly significant, and  _ this _ is where the apparently super-important treaties were supposed to be kept? Though, it had been four hundred years. Perhaps there was more  _ here _ , then.

They walked what could generously be called “inside” and saw -- a broken chest. Solona looked around; perhaps there were other places the treaties might be -- but no. Nothing. She turned to Alistair to ask what they should do now, but was interrupted.

“Well, well,” a woman’s voice cooed, “what have we here?”

Solona and the others turned and saw a young woman -- maybe Solona’s own age -- with black hair, pale skin, and an unmistakable air of confidence. She  _ owned _ any room she was in, of that Solona was certain.

“Are you a vulture, I wonder?” the unknown woman asked, sauntering forward. “A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?”

It was only now that Solona noticed the staff. This woman was a mage -- an apostate. Solona wasn’t quite certain how she felt about meeting one, but if appearances were any indication, this woman was strong enough to handle herself. The woman glared at them all, daring any of them to answer. 

“What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?” she demanded, her gold eyes finally settling on Solona. It seemed she expected a response.

“I’m not a scavenger  _ or _ an intruder. We’re Grey Wardens, and the Grey Wardens once owned this tower,” Solona said, trying to open an avenue for explanation.

“‘Tis a tower no longer. The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse,” the woman replied. “I have watched your progress for some time. ‘Where do they go,’ I wondered, ‘why are they here?’ And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair advised in a whisper. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

“Ooh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you,” the woman mocked.

“Yes. Swooping is bad,” Alistair replied by way of a comeback.

“She’s a witch of the Wilds, she is! She’ll turn us into toads!” Daveth blurted, sounding truly fearful.

Another one frightened of mages. First Jory, back at Duncan’s fire, and now Daveth. A tiny fear began to curl around her mind as she spared a glance at Alistair.

“Witch of the Wilds?” the woman said in a darkly amused tone. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?”

After a pause, the woman turned her attention back to Solona.

“You there. Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I will tell you mine.”

_ When in doubt, fall back on politeness. _ It had served her well with the Templars in the Tower. No reason it couldn’t work on an apostate, too, right?

“I’m Solona. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Solona said, putting on a friendly tone.

“Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds! You may call me Morrigan.” She sounded… well. It was hard to say. But “pleased” might be a good word for it.

“Shall I guess your purpose?” Morrigan asked. “You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?”

“‘Here no longer’?” Alistair demanded. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re… some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!”

_ So much for politeness. _ She shot Alistair a small, disapproving look that he didn’t notice. He was too busy glaring at Morrigan.

“How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.”

“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them,” Morrigan said. “Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened.”

“Do you know who removed them, Morrigan?” Solona interjected, trying to right this sinking ship. They’d never get what Duncan needed if Morrigan turned hostile toward them.

“‘Twas my mother, in fact.”

“Does she still have them? Can you take us to her?”

“Now there is a sensible request,” Morrigan said. “I like you.” And wonder of wonders, it sounded like she meant it. Solona gave her a genuine smile.

“I’d… be careful. First it’s ‘I like you,’ but then zap! Frog time,” Alistair advised,  _ sotto voce _ .

_ Oh, Alistair, not you, too. _

He really  _ had _ been a Templar, hadn’t he. That small fear in her mind started, slowly, to expand.  From the way his eyes widened, Solona must not have done a good job keeping the hurt off her face.

She looked to Morrigan, whose expression was carefully neutral. If they were going to be acquainted longer, she’d have asked how Morrigan pulled that off. She stepped up beside the dark-haired apostate, trying not to care if the men followed her or not. She would get the treaties with or without them. She refused to look back now.

“That’s… a lovely necklace you have,” Solona offered.

“What?” Morrigan sounded like she’d been jolted out of her thoughts.

“Your necklace?” Solona repeated. “It’s beautiful.”

“Oh. ‘Tis kind of you to say,” Morrigan said, looking a bit flat-footed.

“Kind or not, it’s true.” Solona smiled at her. Morrigan didn’t smile back, but Solona had already gotten the impression that Morrigan didn’t smile much.

The bog here looked exactly the same as all the other parts of the bog they’d seen today, except for the small, ramshackle hut in front of them. There was a cooking fire out front, with a pot of something bubbling. The men would probably think it was a potion; Solona was confident that it was stew.

In front of the fire was an old, old woman. She looked wild herself, like the word “hermit” made manifest. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were in much worse repair than Morrigan’s. This was a woman who had seen some shit.

“Greetings, Mother,” Morrigan said. “I bring before you four Grey Wardens who --”

“I see them, girl,” her mother cut in sharply. “Hmm. Much as I expected.”

“Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?” Alistair said, half-laughing.

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide… either way, one’s a fool!” Morrigan’s mother stated, a bit unkindly.

“She’s a witch, I tell you! We shouldn’t be talking to her!” Daveth said, in an audible whisper.

“Quiet, Daveth!” Jory answered. “If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

Witch again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair look over at her. She kept her expression  _ aggressively _ neutral, copying Morrigan.

“ _ There’s _ a smart lad,” Morrigan’s mother said, amused. “Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will.”

Morrigan’s mother then turned her eyes on Solona… and she started to understand why the men felt so unsettled. There was  _ power _ in that frail form, so strong it almost knocked the  _ wind _ out of Solona. (And all of it was focused on her right now holy shit what should she do?) 

She blinked; Morrigan’s mother smiled like a wolf would smile at a particularly stupid sheep.

“And what of you? Does your woman’s mind give you a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as these boys do?”

“I -- I’m not sure what to believe,” Solona said. She had  _ never _ felt anything like this kind of power before -- best to tell the truth. Solona had the feeling Morrigan’s mother would know if she didn’t, anyway.

“A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies. Be always aware… or is it oblivious? I can never remember,” Morrigan’s mother replied airily, as if her mind were wandering off somewhere.

Solona was reasonably certain she was joking. Or putting on an act for the men, to make them think she was just a crazy old lady. Either way, she wasn’t being genuine.

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She’ll turn us into soup!” Daveth said  _ again _ . Solona knew she should be understanding of his fears, every child in Ferelden knew of the Witch of the Wilds and to avoid her, but  _ fuck _ if it wasn’t getting on Solona’s nerves right now. She was  _ right there. _ Some discretion and tact would seem to be called for.

“Witch of the Wilds? Morrigan must have told you that,” Mother said, sounding  _ deeply  _ amused. “She fancies such tales, though she’d never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

“They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother,” Morrigan said, firmly returning her mother to the conversation.

“True. They came for their treaties, yes?” Mother replied, turning to fetch the treaties -- which she  _ conveniently  _ had on hand, it seemed. “And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these.” Solona could easily believe that. 

Morrigan’s mother handed the treaties to  _ her _ , for some reason. There was probably some kind of significance to that, upon reflection. Or maybe Morrigan and her mother just liked her. She  _ was _ the only one who’d been halfway polite this whole time.

“You -- oh. You protected them?” Alistair said.

“And why not? Take these to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!”

“We will,” Solona said, half bowing, to Morrigan and her mother’s amusement. “Thank you for looking after these -- and for returning them.”

“Such manners! Always in the last place you look. Like stockings,” Morrigan’s mother said with a laugh. “Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for.”

“Time for you to go, then,” Morrigan said.

“Do not be ridiculous, girl! These are your guests!” Morrigan’s mother chided.

“Oh. Very well. I will -- show you out of the woods. Follow me,” Morrigan replied, sounding almost confused.

Solona walked beside her in silence, trying not to let it be awkward. The men were quiet as well, giving Solona time to think about… all of this. She had vastly underestimated how unkindly people felt about mages outside the Tower. Even Alistair, and he was supposed to be her Voice. She knew he had trained to be a Templar, but he’d always seemed like one of the kind ones, like Cullen.

But… what if he wasn’t? The things he’d said to and about Morrigan, the look on his face when she’d taken down that darkspawn, even the way he’d treated the mage he’d been talking to just before they met… What if… when she told him everything, what if he didn’t  _ want _ to be her Voice? What were you supposed to do if your soulmate didn’t want you? Keep living as if you’d never found them? Her heart was pounding in her chest so hard it felt like it might break.

“‘Tis lovely,” Morrigan said, out of the blue.

“What?” Solona looked at her, confused.

“Your ring. ‘Tis lovely.”

Solona looked down at her hands; she hadn’t even remembered she was  _ wearing _ a ring. It was the one Irving gave her. Her heart gave another squeeze at the thought of everything she’d been so eager to leave behind. Maybe he’d been right in the first place.

“‘Tis the Circle insignia, is it not?”

“Oh, yes. It is. I got it when I became a full mage of the Circle.”

“When you passed your Harrowing,” Morrigan said.

“Oh! You know --”

“Indeed.” Morrigan smiled a cat-like smile. Solona really shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Well. Then, yes. When I passed my Harrowing.”

“And when was that?”

Solona counted in her head. “A week ago? Thereabouts?”

“Truly?” Morrigan asked, sounding taken aback.

“I live an exciting life,” Solona joked.

“Indeed.” And that was all she said.

But the way Morrigan’s face went carefully neutral again said an  _ awful lot _ . More than it ought to, perhaps. Solona supposed she should be skeptical of Morrigan and her mother -- but she had  _ never _ felt anything like that kind of power. 

They were approaching Ostagar, and Solona was certain Morrigan would want to get out of sight quickly; there were a number of Templars there, and there was no guarantee they’d stop themselves from arresting an apostate, Blight or no.

“Thank you for showing us out, Morrigan. I’m sure we’d have gotten hopelessly lost otherwise,” Solona said, trying to smile at her.

Morrigan didn’t respond beyond a nod. She turned away. Hesitated. Looked back. And then she was gone.

“I vote that we let  _ you _ handle all the talking from now on,” Ser Jory said, staring dumbfounded at Solona. “How in the Maker’s name did you pull that off?”

“How did I pull  _ what _ off?” Solona asked.

“We just talked to  _ the Witch of the Wilds. _ And we  _ lived _ ,” Daveth insisted.

“Oh. Well. I mean -- us witches are people, too. Right?” Solona said, shrugging.

The three men just blinked at her. She led them back inside the walls of Ostagar.


	10. Alistair

Maker’s  _ breath _ , he was an  _ asshole. _

Normally Alistair tried not to use that kind of language, but today, he deserved it. As they all readied themselves for the Joining, Alistair tried to think of a way to apologize to Solona for all the things he’d said about Morrigan -- not realizing that they could easily be extrapolated to mean  _ all mages, including her. _ But “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything bad about  _ you _ , I just don’t trust  _ her, _ ” seemed like it wasn’t enough.

It almost felt funereal: here lies his good impression with the only woman who’d ever been willing to give him the time of day. Rest in peace.

And worse, she’d actually  _ hit it off _ with Morrigan, getting them what they needed while Alistair had been happy to just accuse. If she hadn’t taken charge, the Grey Wardens wouldn’t  _ have _ those treaties right now, because there was no way Morrigan or her mother would have given them to  _ him _ .

Maker. What was he going to do? He couldn’t think of a suitable apology, and she was about to undergo  _ the Joining, _ which killed almost as many people as it made Grey Wardens. If she died here, which Alistair  _ really hoped she didn’t _ , she’d die thinking he was an asshole. Which he was, but he was a  _ repentant  _ asshole. That had to count for something, right?

She was silent as she looked out into the distance, half-turned away from them all. He wondered what she was thinking. None of them had come out of this looking spectacular, except, you know,  _ her _ . He wouldn’t blame her if she thought they all didn’t like mages; all that “witch” talk had clearly gotten to her.

It was, again, Ser Jory who broke the silence… though not in the way Alistair would have hoped.

“The more I hear of this ritual, the less I like it.”

“Are you blubbering again?” Daveth asked.

“Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?” Jory said.

“Maybe it’s tradition,” Daveth said. “Or maybe they’re just trying to annoy you.”

“It’ll be all right, Ser Jory,” Solona cut in, soothing as ever. Did the woman even feel fear? Alistair was close to screaming with it for her. For -- for them all, that is.

“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me… it just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Oh! Do you know how she’s been doing?” Solona asked, animated and interested.

“I -- had a letter from her last week. She’s doing well, and the baby is healthy, far as anyone can tell.”

“When is she due?”

“Early in the spring.”

“That’s wonderful. Truly,” Solona said, smiling warmly at Ser Jory. “How did you meet her? What’s she like?”

As Jory began to tell of his wife, Alistair realized -- she was  _ calming _ him. Getting him to talk about something he really cared about to take his mind off things. Daveth must have figured it out at the same time, because he turned to Alistair.

“Do you want to do that?” Daveth asked, grinning cheekily and gesturing at their companions.

Alistair laughed. “Sure. But be prepared to be underwhelmed by my ability to carry on a conversation.”

“I’m sure you can’t be  _ that _ bad,” Daveth said -- and then they were interrupted.

They felt Duncan’s arrival like a heavy velvet curtain falling on them.  _ This is it, _ the air seemed to say,  _ it’s the moment of truth. _

“At last, we come to the Joining,” Duncan said, walking slowly forward to an altar near the four of them. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood -- and mastered their taint.”

“W-we’re… going to drink the blood of those… those  _ creatures _ ?” Jory asked, sounding absolutely terrified.

“As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you.  _ This _ is the source of our power… and our victory,” Duncan said.

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon,” Alistair explained.

He looked to Solona to see her reaction… and realized that, once again, he’d put his foot in it.  _ Those who survive. _ It was written all over her face, so that even someone who barely knew her could see.  _ This _ was the fear he’d jokingly wondered about not a few moments ago.

She took a breath. Let it out. Swallowed. Looked at Duncan and nodded.

“We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first,” Duncan said. “Alistair, if you would?”

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And, should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten… and that, one day, we shall join  _ you _ .”

Duncan called Daveth forward. The young man took a sip from the chalice -- and choked, clutching desperately at his throat, falling to his knees. Alistair saw Solona’s hands ignite with white fire, looking to heal him, but there was nothing to heal; to some, the Joining was poison.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan whispered.

He turned to Jory next.

“But -- I have a wife. A child. Had I known --” Jory stammered, drawing his sword.

Alistair wanted to call out, tell him to  _ put the sword away, please _ , mentally begging Solona to say something, calm them all down again.  _ Someone, save this man from what’s about to happen. _

“There is no turning back,” Duncan said, voice gone dark as he put the chalice down.

“No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!”

Duncan drew his dagger. At least it was quick.

Jory fell to the ground, and Solona tried to rush forward. Alistair could see what she was thinking --  _ I can heal this, please, just let me through _ \-- but she was blocked by Duncan returning with the chalice.

“You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.”

The face she made, looking at Duncan while Jory bled out beside them -- was nothing short of  _ horrified. _

_ Don’t look at him like that, _ Alistair wanted to say.  _ You don’t understand yet. _

She said nothing. Closed her eyes, and took another breath. She took the cup.

Alistair watched -- well, really that wasn’t strong enough. His eyes  _ locked _ on her, and he wasn’t  _ able _ to look away. His hands curled themselves into fists almost without him noticing, and he leaned forward just slightly, worried beyond belief but trying to look unconcerned.

She took a long draught from it, like Daveth had.

_ Please don’t die _ . It was the only coherent thought he had, repeating over and over again in his mind.  _ Please, please don’t die. _

“From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden,” Duncan pronounced.

She clutched at her head. Her eyes went white, rolling back. She collapsed, falling beside them, but Duncan reached an arm behind her back, catching and lowering her gently. He and Alistair both took a knee next to her, checking her breathing.

“She will live,” Duncan said.

Alistair sighed with relief. Duncan looked over at him, quirking an eyebrow and faintly smiling. Alistair flushed bright red, and wanted to stammer out something about it not being like  _ that _ , but it felt inappropriate, considering. Instead, at Duncan’s urging, he went to ask one of the Chantry mothers to do something for Daveth and Jory. They deserved that much. (And if he ran on the way there and back, not wanting to miss when Solona woke up, at least he had the sense to do it when Duncan wasn’t looking.)

Solona was rousing by the time he came back. She opened her eyes and rubbed at her forehead. If she was anything like him, she had a  _ splitting _ headache right about now.

“It is finished,” Duncan said. “Welcome.”

“Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was -- horrible,” Alistair offered. “I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

Meaning:  _ If only one of you was going to make it through, I’m glad it was  _ you.

She sat up, breathing hard. Alistair offered her a hand. Solona looked at it, then their eyes met.

And… wow. Had he noticed they were  _ this blue _ before? Like those blueberries he had always failed to steal in the Redcliffe market. Or, or the color of the ocean at midnight. Or -- something.  _ Maker. _

She took his hand and he helped pull her to her feet. She wobbled a little, but she didn’t fall. After a long moment, she looked away. Alistair was disappointed, but couldn’t say why.

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked.

Solona shrunk back and didn’t meet Duncan’s gaze. Alistair could almost feel the wall being built between her and everyone else.  _ No, no, don’t do that,  _ he wanted to say.  _ It’s easier to get through it if you’ve got people with you, I swear. _

“It’s over,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair poked, trying to get her to open up the way she’d done for the rest of them. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come,” Duncan said kindly. “Take some time. When you are ready, I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

Solona nodded, but didn’t say anything further.

“The meeting is to the west, down the stairs. Please attend as soon as you are able.”

Duncan turned and left at the barest hint of a second nod from Solona. Alistair saw the way Duncan’s eyes went tight, and he knew his mentor regretted everything about this interaction. This was not a Joining that had gone well. Granted, they never went  _ well, _ but this one was worse than most.

Solona had turned away from him, probably expecting him to leave, too. Maybe he should have, but… He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, then thought better of it and kept his arms solidly by his side.

“Solona?” Alistair asked softly.

She looked at him. From the way her face looked like it was about to crumple -- Maker, she was going to cry.

He had  _ no idea _ what to do.

“Before -- before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining,” he said, reaching for the first true thing he could think of. “We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us… of those who didn’t make it this far.”

He fixed the pendant and handed it to her. She lifted her long braid. Hesitated.

“Would you mind…?” she asked, gesturing.

Mind -- what? Oh, she needed help putting it on.   
“Of course,” he said, trying to smile.

She turned away from him, and he brought the pendant down around her neck, trying not to think of how she smelled like lavender. He fastened it quickly, ignoring the flush spreading down his neck and up his face.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice gone quiet. She looked back at him -- and again, when those blue eyes met his -- Alistair’s breath caught somewhere before it reached his lungs and wow, they were standing  _ really close together, _ weren’t they? He’d seen women before and known they were beautiful, but this was  _ attraction _ in -- almost in the  _ magnetic  _ sense. Something about her drew him in. And he was glad he at least had the sense to not say that out loud, because it would have sounded  _ really stupid _ , but it was nevertheless  _ true _ .

She opened her mouth as if to say something… then shook her head, almost like she was clearing her thoughts.

“I… should probably go meet Duncan,” she said, not taking her eyes off his.

“Oh. Right. Of course,” Alistair replied, making himself move out of her way. “He’d -- be disappointed if you didn’t. He might cry. Best to avoid that, right?”

Solona gave Alistair a thin smile as she walked away.

Alistair sighed, feeling somehow… empty. After a long moment, he started to walk away himself. He’d wait at Duncan’s fire. They’d be able to find him there.

“Excuse me? Warden?” the kennel master called to him before he could get too lost in his thoughts. Alistair turned.

“I haven’t seen the other Warden in a while -- you know, the girl. Is she all right?”

“She is,” Alistair said. “Solona is… just talking with Duncan at the moment.”

“Oh,  _ good, _ ” the kennel master said, looking as relieved as Alistair had felt. “When you see her, could you tell her the medicine worked a treat? I’ve got to get the other dogs ready for the battle, so I won’t be able to.”

“Sure,” Alistair said. “She’ll be glad to hear that.”

“Did you know she brought back enough of those flowers to save any dogs who get sick from this battle, too? She’s a good one.”

“Yes,” Alistair agreed. “She is.”

He walked away, waiting for her --  _ and Duncan, I’m waiting for them  _ both -- at the bonfire. They were only a few minutes -- must have been a short meeting.

“What happened?” he asked Solona,  _ sotto _ . She gave him a look that could have meant anything from “I’ll tell you later” to “I’m annoyed you even asked.”

“The two of you will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit,” Duncan said.

“The beacon will tell Loghain’s men when to charge the darkspawn,” Solona explained quietly.

“What?” Alistair said. “I won’t be in the battle?”

“This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.”

_ That doesn’t mean he needs to send  _ me, Alistair thought, annoyed.

“So he needs two Grey Wardens up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?” he said instead. Duncan knew exactly what he meant, even if Solona didn’t.

“I agree with Alistair,” Solona put in. “We should be in the battle.”

Wait,  _ what? _ Alistair looked at her. Why would she  _ agree _ with him? Nobody  _ ever _ agreed with him.

“That is not your choice,” Duncan insisted. “If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn, exciting or no.”

“I get it, I get it,” Alistair said, pacifying. “Just so you know, if the king asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

“I think I’d like to see that,” she said, almost to herself.

“For you? Maybe,” Alistair replied, flirting with every part of him that knew how -- which was not many, but he could try. “But it has to be a pretty dress.”

She snorted; Duncan sighed. Probably thinking something like,  _ Maker’s breath, not  _ two  _ of them. _

“The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king’s camp, the way we came when we arrived. You two will need to cross the gorge and head through the gate and up to the tower entrance. From the top, you’ll overlook the entire valley.”

“When do we light the beacon?” she asked.

“We will signal you when the time is right,” Duncan said.

A flaming arrow, usually. Hard to mistake when it got shot straight into the air, and easy to see.

“And how much time do we have?”

“Once I leave, move quickly. You’ll have less than an hour,” Duncan said. “Once the beacon is lit, stay with the teyrn’s men and guard the tower. If you are needed, we will send word.”

“Understood,” Solona said, nodding.

“From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title.”

Duncan started to turn away, but Alistair couldn’t leave it like that. 

“Duncan… may the Maker watch over you,” he said.

“May he watch over us all,” Duncan answered.

And then he left. Alistair couldn’t explain the sudden, existential  _ dread _ he felt. It was probably because this battle was so much bigger than the others he’d been in, but… still.

Solona gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, looking at him encouragingly. They didn’t have time for Alistair to go woolgathering in her eyes again, so he nodded, and the two of them set off for the Tower of Ishal.

 


	11. Cailan

Cailan was alone in his tent, already in his father’s golden armor, feeling like it was several sizes too big for him. He was uncomfortable in his own skin, getting a creepy-crawly feeling of  _ not-right-ness _ . He knew this battle wouldn’t go well. They were outnumbered, outmatched, outclassed in every way. They were stuck here in this crumbling hole of a fortress while the horde grew larger and larger, and  _ they _ lost people with every skirmish. Teyrn Cousland’s men were lost in the Wilds, including his older son, and his younger son had died in the last attack by the darkspawn. 

No one needed to tell Cailan their position was bad. He wasn’t stupid. Everyone thought he was, and it suited him to keep it that way. But he was nowhere  _ near _ as dumb as he pretended to be.

His only hope had been in Loghain seeing  _ reason _ and agreeing to an alliance with the Orlesians in the face of Ferelden’s certain doom. Cailan had put this battle off as long as he could, hoping he could soften Loghain’s opinion, but, no. Loghain had stopped even pretending to like him over the very idea. He insisted that the Orlesians would invade as soon as their chevaliers arrived in Ferelden, but they didn’t  _ need _ to invade, since Cailan had been talking with Empress Celene. 

And anyway, that was his  _ father’s  _ war. It was in the  _ past _ , and Loghain insisted on continuing to fight it in the  _ present _ , throwing his father’s name in his face as if it had ever actually  _ meant _ something, like every other old fossil of a man who ever complained about “the youth of today.”

And if Cailan had been  _ stupid _ , he’d have said that  _ to _ Loghain, instead of just thinking it.

So, if this was going to be his last battle, he wanted to fight with the Grey Wardens. If Loghain insisted on bringing up his father,  _ he’d _ gone with the Grey Wardens into the Deep Roads once, and no one had bothered  _ him _ about it. Cailan could be as good a leader as Father had been -- or better, if someone would just point him at a war that was  _ winnable _ and gave him a general who wasn’t stuck somewhere around thirty years ago. 

But it was also good for the morale of the troops, to see Cailan fighting with them. They needed to know they had a leader who would bleed with them. They needed to know they had a leader who felt their pain. Even if they all died here, they’d die knowing they fought with a king who cared about them. And didn’t that count for something? Yes, they’d still all be dead, but maybe one of them could put in a good word with the Maker for him.

Either way. That was why he’d had Alistair sent to the Tower of Ishal. The Grey Wardens didn’t  _ need _ to be the ones to light the beacon. But Cailan and Anora had no heirs -- not that he  _ wanted _ any heir of hers at this point, their marriage was basically dead now -- and so, if anything happened to him, a son of the Theirin blood should rule Ferelden.

Loghain would have kittens. But Loghain was always having kittens, so that didn’t mean much.

After this battle, though… It was  _ horrible _ that he probably wasn’t going to make it out of this, not only because death has a way of being rather permanent, but also… Cailan had planned to finally  _ talk _ to his half-brother. He was king now, and Alistair was an adult, out of the clutches of the Chantry. There was no one to interfere or to stop him from doing it anymore, not Anora, not Uncle Eamon, not Loghain, and not his  _ bloody father _ . Maybe Cailan could have convinced him to leave the Wardens, to come to Denerim. If only for a visit.

Cailan had always wanted a brother. His father had kept that from him, like he’d kept  _ everything _ from him. He’d only found out when he eavesdropped on an argument Father and Uncle Eamon had one spring during one of Uncle Eamon’s occasional visits to Denerim.

_ “What the bloody fuck were you thinking?” _ his father had yelled, which had caught Cailan’s attention in much the same way a barking dog would.

“Maric, we’ve only done what we thought was best. The boy will do well in the Chantry. He’ll have the chance to make something of himself,” Uncle Eamon had replied, soft and soothing.

“Make an  _ addict _ of himself. Make a  _ mage-hunter _ of himself.  _ Quite _ the distinguished positions you have in mind for him.”

“Is it any better than what  _ you _ had in mind for him? To be a servant’s son forever? You entrusted his education to me, and I’ve made my decision.”

“ _ Isolde _ made this decision, not  _ you. _ She’s always hated him --”

“Because  _ you _ wouldn’t let me tell her the truth!”

“I had my reasons, Eamon,” his father growled. “I have half a mind to send  _ your _ son off to the Chantry as soon as he’s born. Then maybe you’ll understand.  _ Get out.” _

Uncle Eamon left the study and the castle then, furious. (The two of them didn’t speak for a year after that.) 

But Cailan hadn’t known what they’d been talking about. It sounded like his father had been angry at Uncle Eamon over sending Cailan away… but Cailan hadn’t  _ gone _ anywhere. Not yet, anyway. 

It was the only thing that made any sense, though why Father would have entrusted Cailan’s education to Uncle Eamon was still a mystery. But even that was plausible. Father had never been overly-involved, and Cailan had been passed off to nannies, tutors, and relatives since his mother died. 

Still. He didn’t  _ want _ to leave Denerim. He was supposed to be king someday, and he couldn’t do that in the Chantry. At fourteen, he was far too old to cry or even to sniffle. Instead, he strode into the room to confront his father with all the confidence his years could bring him.

“ _ What -- _ ” his father began, truly terrifying… then he softened. “Oh, Cailan. I’m sorry. Did you need something?”

“Am I being sent away?” he demanded. 

“Why -- why would you think that?” his father asked.

“You were just arguing with Uncle Eamon. I overheard.”

His father sighed, turning away from Cailan and facing the window. He always got like this when he was upset about something. Cailan braced himself for the impact -- why  _ else  _ would his father be upset?

“No, you’re not being sent away,” Father said. “And I’m sorry you thought you were. This has nothing to do with you, Cailan. It’s a personal matter between me and Arl Eamon.”

“Then -- what, you have another son I don’t know about?” Cailan asked sarcastically.

His father paused a moment, still gazing out the window. He got like this sometimes, as if he were focusing on something far away. Cailan was used to having to wait for his father to deign to respond, but as he was growing older, it was starting to chafe.

“Yes,” Father said.

The room spun around Cailan and he felt very much like he should sit down (though he couldn’t, not with his father here). He couldn’t possibly have heard right… could he?

“...Wait, really?”

“Really,” his father said, still not looking at him.  _ How reassuring, Father, _ Cailan thought bitterly.

“So… I have a brother?”

“Yes.”

His father’s tone declared the matter settled, but Cailan was far from done. Where was this brother? What was his name? Was he a  _ younger _ brother or an  _ older _ brother? How old was he, anyway? What was he like? Could he come to Denerim? And why didn’t Father ever mention this before?

But his father continued to be silent, staring out the window as if the scenery was more interesting or more important than the  _ fireball _ Father had just dropped on Cailan’s life.

“And what, that’s it? You’re not going to tell me anything about him?”

Father sighed again, leaning his head back and looking up to the ceiling.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Cailan said. 

And he meant it.

Cailan had lived a long and lonely childhood. His mother died when he was young, Anora was never any fun to play with -- but a  _ brother _ . A brother would have changed  _ everything _ for Cailan, and, when he still really believed in the Maker, he’d prayed every night for  _ years _ for a brother. Even a sister would have done. All he wanted was someone who would  _ understand. _ That’s something no one could ever be, not his father, not Loghain, not Anora, not  _ anyone  _ \-- except his brother.

He was deeply resentful of his father for keeping his brother away from him all those years. Father knew it, too. Their relationship had never been the same from that day. Cailan supposed a better man would regret that now. But he couldn’t. Keeping Alistair away from Cailan was the lethal blow to a relationship that had been strained for Cailan’s entire youth. 

Still. Father had at least been forthcoming. Cailan knew _ all about  _ Alistair. He knew that he’d been training to be a Templar -- and that he hated it. He knew that Alistair hadn’t spoken to Uncle Eamon since he was sent away -- and he didn’t blame Alistair for that, not one bit. He knew that Alistair was shy and awkward, and he was sarcastic, just like Cailan, and he didn’t have anybody, not until the Grey Wardens. Neither of them had anybody, not really. They were both orphans now, and neither of them had any true friends.

And it was that -- that one simple point of commonality -- that had made Cailan  _ determined _ to acknowledge Alistair as his brother once this battle was over. He’d even have named Alistair as his heir if that’s what Alistair wanted. 

All Cailan had ever wanted was a  _ brother _ . 

But he couldn’t talk to Alistair  _ here _ , not with Loghain sniffing around. And he couldn’t leave him anything, and he couldn’t even write a note. All he could do was keep Alistair safe and fight alongside the Grey Wardens himself. He hoped it was enough to prove his love of the brother he’d never been able to know. 

Maybe, if he got lucky and he really  _ was _ wrong about the steady chorus of darkspawn drums in his head, pounding out the beat of  _ this battle is not survivable _ … maybe, if he was really wrong, he could invite Alistair and the little mage girl who was with him -- whatever her name was, he’d forgotten now. Remiss of him. But Cailan could invite them to Denerim, give them each a medal for their bravery or something. If only to take the excuse to talk to Alistair.

If only he could be sure he’d get through this battle. 

Maker, he hoped for once that he was as stupid as everyone thought.

“Your Majesty?” Duncan called from outside the tent. “We’re ready.” 

“Coming,” Cailan replied, taking one last look in the glass before he left. He looked like a king. He wished he’d had the sense to just look like Cailan. Just this once, since it was the last time. But the people needed their king, and he didn’t mind.

“The plan will work, Your Majesty,” Duncan said.

If Cailan had been stupid, he wouldn’t have known Duncan was lying.

“Of course it will,” Cailan lied back confidently. “The Blight ends here.”


	12. Solona

The rain was as unrelenting as the enemy, and Solona and Alistair were thoroughly soaked by the time they reached the far side of the bridge, leading up to the Tower of Ishal. Looking around, Solona saw soldiers fighting darkspawn even here, which struck her as odd… and the darkspawn  _ absolutely _ outnumbered their side. That definitely hadn’t been the plan as she’d understood it.

And something  _ else _ struck her as odd. Their men weren’t  _ defending _ . They were trying to push  _ forward, _ the same direction Solona and Alistair were going.

“Alistair,” she said, resting a hand on his arm to stop him from charging forward. “These men are fighting hard, but I think the darkspawn have probably broken through already. Our side is trying to  _ get _ to the Tower, like us.”

“You think the Tower’s been overrun?” he asked.

“It looks that way to me. What do you think?”

He paused for a moment, squinting to get a good look at the soldiers. He shook his head -- the rain was getting harder, and visibility was getting worse by the second.

“I can’t see much of anything, but if the Tower’s been taken, then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!”

“I’m with you,” Solona said, nodding and falling in behind him.

Fighting alongside Alistair felt as easy as breathing, which was saying an awful lot, given Solona’s very limited combat experience. She just fired her staff at whatever darkspawn Alistair was currently attacking, throwing down glyphs to freeze them in place so that he didn’t have to face more than one or two at a time, and shooting out a healing spell every time he started to get too banged up. He certainly hadn’t complained. Yet.

They entered the Tower of Ishal -- and immediately stumbled into a grease trap. Solona froze the grease before the darkspawn could light it on fire, and she and Alistair skated across with little difficulty. He shot her a quick smile before he went charging off to handle the darkspawn.

The enemy had all the advantage here; attacking a tower was much more difficult than defending a tower, and they had numbers on their side. What could two Grey Wardens -- two  _ neophyte _ Grey Wardens, at that -- do against a whole  _ tower _ full of darkspawn? There was no rescue coming, and no one was going to help them. If the darkspawn had filled this front room so thoroughly, the king’s men were already done for. But the plan had to continue as they had stated, or every soldier in the valley, including the Grey Wardens and the king, would be dead.

Solona and Alistair  _ had _ to survive. Or at least,  _ one _ of them had to live long enough to light the beacon.

The darkspawn fanned out across the room, making Alistair’s job more difficult. Solona froze one with Winter’s Grasp, and another with a glyph, when a fireball exploded in front of her.

_ An emissary. _

Solona whirled, looking around for the darkspawn mage --  _ there _ it was. Hiding in the corner, far enough away that Alistair would have to be crazy to go after it. The other darkspawn would flank him for sure.

Which meant only one thing: Solona had to take it down herself.

She fired a bolt of arcane energy at the emissary, more to get its attention than anything else. She dodged its answering attack --  _ the same spell, that copycat _ \-- and tried to freeze it where it stood.

The emissary shrugged off the cold and shot another fireball at her -- right as she threw a Stonefist spell at it. The two of them were knocked down -- and Solona was half-sure the skirt of her robe was on fire.

“Solona!” she heard Alistair call. She couldn’t see; her eyes had filled with dust and dirt.

“I’m fine!” she called back. “Just keep doing what you’re doing!”

She heard the disgruntled noise he made in return, followed by more clanging of metal on metal. Good. He’d listened.

Desperate to clear her eyes, Solona conjured some ice in her hands, then melted it into water. She rubbed at her face vigorously as more bolts from the emissary’s staff hit her square in the chest. Each one knocked her a little farther back; if this continued, she was going to slip on the ice she’d made, and she’d be easy pickings for any darkspawn nearby.

She blinked; her vision was still blurry. She blinked again; her vision was a little clearer. She could make out basic shapes, at least. She saw the brown smear that was once the emissary, and she knew what she had to do.

Focusing all her mana, she thought of  _ ice _ and  _ cold _ and  _ snow _ . She poured every ounce of concentration into this one cold spell -- and she aimed it  _ right _ at the emissary.

It became the most horrendous ice sculpture the world had ever seen. Solona fell to her knees, panting hard, as Alistair casually walked up to the emissary and shattered it. She had definitely overextended herself there, but if there was ever a time that overextending herself was the appropriate response… 

She rummaged through her bag, hoping that maybe she’d tucked a lyrium potion in there… but no. There was nothing.

Well. There was no other way out but  _ through. _ Solona forced herself to a vaguely standing position and flashed Alistair a wobbly smile. With an answering grin, he led the way up the tower. 

“That was a good trick, by the way,” he said as they pushed forward. 

“Freezing the emissary?”

“And the grease!”

“Oh. Thanks,” she replied. “I was put on kitchen duty sometimes, and that’s how we’d get rid of the cooking grease. Freeze it and throw it away.”

“You didn’t keep it in the food? That’s where all the  _ flavor _ is!” Alistair said, pretending to be shocked.

“Try telling that to the kitchen witches,” Solona quipped -- as they entered yet another room full of darkspawn.

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair swore as the darkspawn scattered across the room, “What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here!”

“I don’t know,” Solona muttered. “But I know I don’t like it. Something about this feels… off. We haven’t seen a single one of our soldiers since we got here, and this tower was supposed to be defended.”

“We’ll have to worry about that later. Right now, we need to hurry.”

He was worried for Duncan, Solona knew that. If it had been Irving fighting down there, she’d have been a wreck. Alistair was handling it well (better than  _ she _ would have, that was certain). 

Several arrows flew their way over to the pair of them. Solona threw up a simple barrier and the projectiles bounced off harmlessly. It would take some mana and concentration, she knew, but she could maintain that spell on the two of them, effectively disabling the genlocks.

Alistair rushed forward, knocking down a genlock archer and pummeling it with his shield. Solona kept well behind him, throwing down a glyph of paralysis. Two hurlocks crept behind Alistair -- they weren’t usually the stealthy types, but Alistair’s attention was on the genlock. Panicked, Solona fired a Stonefist spell at the two of them. The giant rock knocked both hurlocks to the floor, and one of them didn’t get back up.

Unfortunately for Solona, the other one did.

It  _ roared _ at her, sword drawn, its unholy mouth opened wide enough that she could practically see its tonsils. Low on mana, she tried to freeze it with a simple Winter’s Grasp spell, but the fear was caught in her throat; she froze the floor underneath her instead. She was nearly out of mana, and if she didn’t think  _ fast _ , she would be out of time.

The hurlock sauntered over toward her, as if  _ savoring _ the idea of killing her.

Out of better ideas, she grabbed her staff and swept the hurlock off its own feet. It landed abruptly on its ass, and Solona beat its head with her staff, over and over. Alistair must have heard the racket, because he turned -- and once he saw the hurlock,  _ he _ charged, ending the battle rather decisively with one sharp blow of his sword. 

“All right there?” he asked, helping her up.

“I’m fine. Thanks for the assist.”

“You’re… you’re really not hurt or anything?” He sounded worried. That shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was.

“Low on mana, and my ass and my dignity are bruised, but I think I’ll live,” she replied, smiling at him.

“Do you have any lyrium potions?” he asked. “I didn’t think to bring any.”

“No, I don’t. But it should be fine. We’re almost to the top of the tower.”

As they ran out of the room and up the last flight of stairs, Solona wished anything about this could have gone to plan. She wished this could have been an easy mission, like King Cailan and Duncan had intended. She’d argued that they should fight, but she hadn’t meant  _ this _ . Mostly she just hadn’t wanted Alistair to feel like no one needed him.

She hoped, desperately, that once they got up to the beacon, nothing else would go wrong.

“Thank the Maker,” Alistair breathed as he pushed open the final door. “We made it.”

But as the door opened… they saw the ogre. A huge, purple horned thing that could have had Alistair for dinner and Solona for dessert. It must have heard the door open, because it slowly turned its head toward them.

“Oh,  _ shit, _ ” Solona whispered. The ogre roared, then began stalking forward as if to say,  _ now you have nowhere to run, little Wardens. _

Even though they had fought as quickly as they could to get here, Duncan had said they’d have less than an hour. There was no way they wouldn’t miss the signal while fighting the ogre… if they hadn’t missed it already. So Solona made an executive decision while Alistair tried to draw the ogre’s attention. She was dangerously low on mana -- so much so that she was starting to get a wheezy feeling in her chest -- but, given everything… she had to try. 

She’d never been very good with fire. Stone was her best of the classical “four elements,” and ice was the next best thing. Sweat stinging her eyes, she called forth a tiny ball of fire, just barely enough to light the beacon with -- and once it was ready, she  _ threw _ it across the roof. It landed just off to the side of the beacon, but close enough that a spark lit the wood underneath like wildfire.

The signal went up. Even if they didn’t defeat the ogre, the army would be all right.

Unfortunately for Solona, again, Teyrn Loghain wasn’t the only one the beacon signaled.

The ogre turned to look -- their eyes caught -- and then it  _ ran _ at her, faster than Alistair could follow. It reached down a long arm and picked her up in its hand, as easily as if she weighed nothing. It squeezed --  _ hard _ \-- the pain bore down on her, and the world turned red. She was dimly aware of Alistair attacking the ogre frantically, trying to get it to drop her, he was yelling or something, she wasn’t sure what.

Alistair slashed at the ogre’s arm, and it dropped her to the ground. She thought that she heard a few loud cracks as she hit the floor. The pain shot through both legs and her spine, her head smashed into the tile, and she lay still.

She thought she saw Alistair  _ leap _ at the ogre, stabbing it repeatedly in the chest -- and then it went still, too.

“Solona,” she heard him say, almost like he was speaking from underwater. He tossed his sword and shield aside, dropping to his knees next to her.

She focused her eyes on him as much as she could ( _ hello there, Ser Concussion, how are you today?) _ , but even though she was having trouble focusing, Solona easily saw the  _ relief _ flood his face.

“You’re -- it, it’s all right, I’ve got elfroot in my pack, hold on,” he said. She heard bottles going  _ clink _ as he rummaged desperately in his bag. He shifted his arm underneath her back, supporting her weight as he held the little red potion bottle to her lips. She drank -- swallowed wrong, coughed -- and kept drinking. He took the bottle away every few sips to keep her from drinking too much too quickly.

The potion tasted  _ terrible. _ But her head was less swimmy and her legs hurt less -- more like a dull ache than the sharp, overwhelming pain it had been a moment ago, and certainly much more bearable. Elfroot didn’t hold a candle to magical healing, but it had curative and pain-relieving properties that more than made up for the awful taste.

And she looked at him again, now that the edge was taken off the pain, and he was looking back at her with such…  _ care _ . Such  _ concern. _ His amber eyes were focused  _ squarely _ on her face, and it… it was really starting to feel overwhelming again. They weren’t bonded, they hadn’t even  _ begun _ to bond, but the  _ care _ was there already, and Solona didn’t know what to do with it. He reached down and pushed her now-disheveled hair out of her face, stopping just short of cupping her cheek.

“Thanks,” she managed to squeak out.

“Can -- can you heal… would you…” he sighed, starting again, “are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine, but I can’t heal my legs right now. I’m out of mana, and anyway, I’d need someone to set the bones in the right places, or it’d heal wrong.”

“Right. You mentioned that before,” Alistair said, his thoughts obviously far away.

Solona gave him a moment to gather his thoughts, just enjoying the feeling of leaning up against him. Even if this all went tits-up, she’d had  _ this. _ It was more than she’d  _ ever _ had, and didn’t that just bring her sad little life into perspective.

“Here,” he said suddenly, “I’m going to bring you over behind this wall. You rest up, and stay quiet, hide as best you can. I’ll get some help, and I’ll be right back -- it’s… it’s going to be all right, you said so yourself.”

Solona was about to tell Alistair to put her down and  _ pull _ her across the floor, instead of carrying her, since that could lead to further injury -- when the door opened with a loud bang. They both looked over, half-expecting to see someone coming to their rescue.

It was not.

A genlock archer drew an arrow before Alistair had a chance to even  _ move _ , and fired it directly into Solona’s shoulder. She heard Alistair yell “ _ No!”  _ before, finally, the pain took her down and the world went dark.


	13. Alistair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter! Hope you all enjoy!  
> -333

It was all his fault. He knew that much. If he had _insisted_ on fighting in the battle with Duncan… if he hadn’t put his sword and shield down, if he’d _defended_ her like the knight he was supposed to be… if he’d noticed the things _she’d_ noticed and disobeyed his orders to inform Duncan and the king that everything had gone wrong… maybe he could have saved them. But he didn’t. He didn’t save them and they were gone and it was all his fault.

“You’re going to put me off my stew, young man,” the old woman said from her cooking fire, a fair distance away. 

Alistair half-hoped Daveth had been right, and this old witch _was_ going to eat him.

But then the word _witch_ and the thought of Daveth and the last time they’d been here made him think of Solona, and she was… this was too much, far too much for anyone to expect him to bear.

_That great beast lifting her into the air, the panic and the rage as he desperately hacked away at it, anywhere he could reach -- just let her go, he’d called. Let her go. Her cry as it nearly crushed her, the dazed, half-conscious look she gave him when he killed it, the darkspawn’s arrow in her chest -- where was his shield?_

“She’s going to be fine,” the old woman cut in again. “She’s just taking some time to recover.”

“I wish I could believe that,” he said, without really meaning to.

But the old woman just chuckled and continued stirring the pot.

“She’s rubbed off on you already, has she? Good,” she said, taking the ladle from the pot and sipping gently. “A bit too sweet for my taste, but serviceable.”

Somehow Alistair didn’t think she was talking about the stew. He glanced over at her, but she’d returned her attention entirely to her dinner.

They were gone. _If_ the old woman was telling the truth, maybe Solona was... but the rest of them -- were gone. Alistair was the only one left who knew anything about the Grey Wardens. And _if_ the old woman was telling the truth, and _if_ Solona was all right… what would she even _do?_ Alistair didn’t know what _he_ was going to do. What _could_ he do?

The door opened. Alistair didn’t turn, expecting it to be Morrigan.

“See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man.”

_Now_ Alistair turned, taking several steps toward her, just _staring_ in stark disbelief. She was… the old woman _hadn’t_ lied.

“You -- you’re alive,” Alistair said with a watery chuckle. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

And Maker, she was looking at _him_ with just… concern and _affection_ , he couldn’t deny that’s what it looked like, and Alistair felt a lump rise in his throat.

“How are _you?”_ she asked, taking his hand and starting to examine him for any signs of injury.

“Me?” he asked.

“Do you doubt my work, young lady?” Morrigan’s mother interrupted. Solona suddenly flushed a brilliant red.

“Oh, no, of course not,” she said. “I -- I was just worried, and --”

The old woman smiled indulgently, but there was a bite behind it, too.

“It’s quite all right. I understand. After all, you are the only two _souls_ left in the Grey Wardens right now.”

Solona took a step back, her eyes wide and locked on the old woman. Alistair had the feeling he was missing something here.

“Thank you for rescuing us,” she said instead. “And for the healing.”

“No, no, thank _you_. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I.”

Solona’s eyes narrowed, as if answering a challenge of some kind. Then she shook her head and turned her attention to Alistair.

“Speaking of which,” she said, “we should figure out what we’re going to do now.”

She… she was going to stay? The relief Alistair felt was enough to make him dizzy.

“It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?” Morrigan’s mother said.

“No,” Solona replied, as Alistair finally let some anger find its way to the surface, “But we _were_ fighting the darkspawn! The king had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?”

“Now _that_ is a good question. Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature,” the old woman said. “Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.”

“The archdemon,” Alistair agreed darkly.

“Then we’d need to find it,” Solona said.

“By ourselves?” Alistair asked. “No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the armies of a half-dozen nations at his back.”

“No. Not by ourselves,” Solona replied. “We _do_ have allies we can call on.”

“Do we? Duncan said the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been called, but… I don’t know. And Arl Eamon would never stand for this, surely. I know him. He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet. We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Solona said.

“Such determination! How intriguing,” the old woman cut in.

“But I was also referring to the treaties,” Solona finished.

The sudden fierce _joy_ that bubbled up from somewhere inside him felt a bit like emotional whiplash. He’d just been so… but now, maybe they could do this, together, and he could finish what Duncan had started, and… Maker help him, he could have _kissed_ her for suggesting it.

“Of course! Grey Wardens can demand help from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They’re obligated to help us during a Blight!”

“I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else… this sounds like an _army_ to me,” the old woman declared.

“So… can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and… build an army?” Alistair asked.

_Please say yes._ He couldn’t do this on his own, he knew that. And she was _good_ with people, and she was _from_ the Circle, so they’d get the mages’ help straight away, and… he didn’t think he could handle being alone anymore. Their eyes met -- and _held._

“Of course we can,” she said, with all sincerity.

Oh. Alistair’s heart gave a sudden lurch, as if it were going to rip itself out of his chest. And… and he’d thought it jokingly a moment ago, but… he really _could have_ kissed her.

“Thank you again for everything,” Solona said, her attention fully on the old woman.

“Yes,” Alistair added, “thank you -- ah, what do we call you? You never told us your name.”

“Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

_The Witch of the Wilds. You were right, Daveth._

“ _The_ Flemeth?” Solona asked.

“I suppose you have questions,” Flemeth said, smiling predatorily at Solona.

“ _So_ many,” she admitted, “but I think I’ll savor the curiosity.”

Flemeth chuckled.

“Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you,” Flemeth said, turning her attention to her daughter.

“The stew is bubbling, Mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the eve or none?” Morrigan asked.

“The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them.”

“Such a shame -- _what?”_

Alistair had to agree: _what?_ How could Flemeth think sending her daughter with them was a good idea? She didn’t know them! And there was a Blight on!

“You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance,” Flemeth said. “And as for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

“You’re welcome to come with us, Morrigan.” Solona smiled at her.

Right. He’d almost forgotten how Solona had made friends.

“Not to… look a gift horse in the mouth, but won’t this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate,” he said.

“If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower.”

Ouch.

“Point taken.”

“Mother,” Morrigan interjected, “this is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready --”

“You must be ready. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

“I… understand,” Morrigan said.

“And you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you _must_ succeed.”

“We understand,” Solona said, speaking for both of them. Alistair didn’t mind.

After a short discussion, they chose to take Morrigan’s suggestion of the village of Lothering as their first stop. They bade farewell to Flemeth, and, after a few heated words passed between Morrigan and her mother, the three of them were on their way.

Solona and Morrigan were in front of him, Solona chatting away about life in the Circle -- and Alistair supposed he should have listened, but all he could think was that every step took him further from Ostagar. He wanted to go and be a Grey Warden like Flemeth said, but what if… what if Duncan hadn’t been killed? What if he needed help? And if he _had_ been killed, what about his body? Shouldn’t Duncan get to rest, after everything he’d done for Ferelden and for _Alistair?_

Each step away from Ostagar felt like a step too many.

And suddenly, he heard frantic barking. Solona stopped, and he and Morrigan followed suit. Where was it coming from? A brown blur ran through the trees, charging toward them. A Mabari? That explained the barking.

The dog aimed its large, furry body straight at Solona, tackling her to the ground. Alistair put his hand on his sword hilt before he heard Solona’s terrified giggling. When saw the dog licking Solona all over the face, he relaxed a bit.

“Hey there, _you,_ ” Solona said, trying to sound firm and failing utterly. “Get off, would you? We’re married in some parts of this country now.”

The dog barked and obediently climbed off her, sitting to one side with its stubby tail wagging furiously. Solona sat up on her knees, looking the dog in the eyes -- and _melted,_ a warm, genuine smile spreading across her face.

“Hey, boy,” she said. “So you found me, did you?”

The dog barked an affirmative. Solona beamed at him.

“Who’s a good boy?” Solona asked in a perfectly ordinary tone.

The dog whimpered excitedly, his stump of a tail thumping hard on the ground.

“ _Who’s_ a good boy?” she asked again, still sounding normal.

The dog looked a bit like the anticipation was killing him.

_“Iss you! Oh_ _jess it idd. He’d my good boy, jess he idd! Jess he idd!”_

Solona attacked the dog with affection, rubbing her forehead on his and petting anywhere she could reach. The dog, in return, fell to the ground with a _fwump_ , exposing his belly for a rub. Solona happily obliged.

“I think he was looking for you. He’s… chosen you. Mabari are like that,” Alistair explained. Solona had never had a pet. Maybe she didn’t know.

“Does this mean we’re going to have this mangy beast following us about now? Wonderful,” Morrigan said.

“He’s not mangy!” Alistair protested.

“Well,” Solona said after a long moment, standing up and dusting off her robes, “if you’re going to come with us, you’ll need a name.”

The dog barked happily.

“Calenhad might get confusing, since we’ll be traveling by the lake at some point. Hmm. How about Cathaire? Disciple of Andraste?”

The dog huffed in clear disapproval.

“All right, then,” Solona said, thinking. “Ooh! How about Cadarn? It’s Avvar for ‘mighty.’”

The dog growled.

“So that’s a no. What about Dane? Famous figure in Ferelden mythology and history, allegedly lived as a werewolf for a year?”

The dog gave her a flat look, as if to say, _Really? That’s the best you have?_

“All right, then, _you_ come up with a name, you horrid little barkspawn,” Solona said, rubbing the dog’s ears affectionately.

The dog barked, wagging its tail excitedly. Solona stopped rubbing his ears and closed her eyes with a long-suffering look.

“Please tell me you don’t like ‘barkspawn.’”

The dog barked again, bouncing from side to side.

Solona muttered something under her breath; Alistair couldn’t tell _what_ she was saying, but it was clear enough that she was swearing. He couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him, and he knew he thoroughly deserved the glare he got from Solona in return.

“Maker, why is it always the brown-eyed sarcastic ones?” Solona groaned, casting her eyes to an uncaring sky. “All right, then, come on… Barkspawn.”

The sun was sinking low in the sky well before they got to Lothering, and the two women decided it was a good idea to set up some kind of camp. They didn’t have tents or bedrolls, but Solona had two spare robes to lie on, one each for her and Morrigan -- and Alistair was fine in his padded undershirt.

Morrigan set herself apart from the two of them, and the dog decided to go to sleep, huffing and snoring softly nearby. It was just Solona, Alistair, and the crushing weight of Alistair’s despair. He half-expected that she would just keep to herself, leave him be the way she’d done for the last two hours.

Instead, she sat herself down beside him. The two of them stared straight ahead. Solona brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on top.

“You don’t have to talk about it today, or -- or ever, if you don’t want to,” she said abruptly, “and you won’t be bothering me if you _do_. Thought I’d just make that explicit. I’m fine just sitting here if you are. And if you’re not, you can tell me to go away. I won’t be offended.”

The two of them sat in silence for a while, as Alistair tried to figure out whether or not he wanted to talk about “it”. The battle. Ostagar. Loghain. Cailan… Duncan.

Duncan was gone.

No. Duncan was _dead_.

And with that last thought, the floodgates opened. He probably should have felt embarrassed about crying in front of this girl he barely knew, but the grief just… swallowed him. Duncan was the only person who’d ever given a damn about Alistair, and now Duncan was dead.

Nobody could ever replace him.

As Alistair tried -- and failed -- to bring himself under some measure of control, he felt two arms wrap around his shoulders, and Solona’s forehead resting against his temple. He brought his hands up to her arms, just… holding on. Peering over at her, he saw that her eyes were shut tight, trying to hold back the tide of her own tears -- and failing, as drop after drop hit his shoulder. She took in a shuddering breath almost at the same moment he did, and he leaned his head toward hers.

It occurred to him after a few long moments of this… he couldn't remember the last time anyone had just _held_ him. Even when Alistair was a child, the Arl had rarely bothered, and once he married, any affection between them stopped dead. He had no parents and few enough friends. And when he was sent to the Chantry, they tried to destroy any desire to touch, even a friendly handshake or clap on the shoulder. Not that the other Templars had liked him enough to _shake_ his hand, but there it was.

_Touching_ was wrong, wicked, _sinful,_ even, and yet… and yet _this_ touch, here, with _this_ woman -- it felt…

It felt surprisingly like _home._

Alistair didn’t know how long they sat like that, but he knew that she was the one to calm first, her breathing gone steady but for the occasional sniffle. It was absolutely dark by the time he had regained some measure of control.

“I’m so sorry, Alistair,” she whispered, sounding almost like she was about to start crying again.

This hushed, brief peace -- it was sacred. Almost like moving too much or talking too loudly would shatter the soft moment she'd made for his grief. The pain was still there, of course, but it had gentled somewhat for now. It was less overwhelming, less bleak. Almost like she was giving him some strength. Maybe she was. Alistair wasn’t sure. All he knew was he didn’t want this to be over. Not yet.

“I -- I’d like to have a proper funeral for him. When all this is over, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of,” Alistair whispered back.

“He had you.”

He pulled away slightly, just to get a better look at her, and as she opened her eyes to look at him… His heart decided that this would be a great time to visit his tonsils, and banged rather hard on the door of his larynx. Maker, he was _completely_ incoherent now, wasn't he?

It was _too soon_ to be feeling like this, but the way she acted… it was like she really _cared._ And even if she didn’t, even if she was just being polite, he clearly _needed_ someone to care. She showed no intention of moving or even letting go; he was so… just, grateful.

“Have you… had someone close to you die? I don’t mean to pry, I’m just…”

Solona went quiet for a few heartbeats, and Alistair was about to apologize and take it back when she answered.

“I’ve felt a pain that rhymes with yours.”

Alistair must have looked confused, because she clarified.

“First Enchanter Irving used to say during our history lessons that ‘History doesn’t repeat herself, but she has a lovely gift for rhyming.’ The same themes pop up over and over again in history, in religion, in art… in any life experience, people’s stories tend to sound similar,” she said. “I can’t feel your pain, not exactly. I’m not you. But I’ve felt pain that… well… rhymes.”

He was a bit… struck by that. She started to pull away, and he realized that his legs had fallen asleep from the ass down, and that the ground he was sitting on was cold and uncomfortable, and there might be a bug in his boot.

Solona rubbed at her legs -- so he wasn’t the _only_ one -- and looked _very hard_ at the ground for a few minutes. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he thought he saw a blush.

“Solona?” he called softly.

She snapped her gaze to him.

“Thank you. I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little. And I’m sorry --”

She reached a hand out and cupped his cheek, _ensuring_ he looked her in the eyes.

“Don’t you _ever_ apologize for this.”

Alistair blinked. He’d been bothering her, crying all over her robes, and…

“You deserve to grieve as much as anybody else. All right?”

He… didn’t know what to make of that. Nobody ever said he deserved things, unless it was “you deserve worse than the little we’re giving you, so be grateful for it.” But he nodded like he understood, if only to make her feel better. She smiled -- a thin one, but still there -- and walked back over to her makeshift bedroll.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Alistair,” she replied, yawning and letting herself drift off to sleep.

He watched her for a few minutes afterward. She showed up in his life and gave him care he never knew he needed. What _was_ she?

As he laid himself down on the least-uncomfortable patch of dirt he could find, the answer came to him: everything. She was everything, now.

 

**END OF PART ONE**


	14. Morrigan

After traveling with them for nearly a week, Morrigan had only one opinion for all of her new comrades: each and every one of them was an utter fool.

There was Alistair, the perfect Templar, truly, and everything her mother had told her about that wretched Order. The newly-joined Chantry sister, Leliana, who was so sweet it made Morrigan’s teeth ache. Sten, the Qunari, who was marginally more sensible than the rest of them, but still shackled to an undesirable ideology that made him see  _ mages _ as  _ things. _ The dog, who was a constant nuisance with his barking and stubborn insistence on leaving “gifts” for Morrigan in the form of spoiled meat amongst her clothes.

And, of course, their leader, Solona, who never met a lost cause she didn’t try to solve. She’d spent the best part of two days in Lothering, fixing things and gathering supplies for people who were already dead, though they didn’t yet know it. And while Morrigan had tried her hardest to convince Solona to keep moving, that every moment they didn’t keep ahead of the darkspawn was a moment closer to the failure of their mission, Solona simply smiled and said, in a mild tone, that there was always time to help someone.

_ Not if you are trying to keep pace ahead of a darkspawn horde, _ went Morrigan’s largely-unspoken reply. She did scoff, though, almost by reflex, and Alistair shot her a look so angry it was a wonder his face did not stay that way.

Now, the ragtag companions were in camp for the night, and even Morrigan had to admit it was a far cry from the first night of sleeping on a rolled-up Circle robe. They had purchased bedrolls and tents in Lothering, and, after a long and involved argument regarding whether or not a regular fire would be too visible if Loghain had them followed, Alistair had built a real fire pit. Solona had even somehow wheedled a merchant into traveling with them, so they were near supplies at any given time. 

Morrigan usually set herself apart from the rest; camaraderie was not required for her to perform her duty. She knew, however, that Solona would come and speak to her anyway. She seemed to think it _her_ duty to speak to everyone each and every time they rested. Why, Morrigan wasn’t sure, but Solona’s company was not entirely unwelcome. If only to stop Solona and Alistair’s current interminable debate.

The pair of them were poring over a slightly-outdated map of Ferelden they’d bought from the innkeeper in Lothering, trying to figure out if it were best to go to the Circle Tower or Redcliffe Village first. The two areas were close enough in distance that the Wardens wouldn’t lose much time no matter where they went first, and, to make matters worse, each had a certain childish sentimentality toward one place or the other.

And so Morrigan found herself in the unenviable position of having to listen to the last two Wardens in Ferelden debating over where to go next, with each trying to be the more accommodating party by suggesting and arguing for  _ the other’s _ home.

_ Honestly _ . The rank foolishness of the two of them for each other, even at this early stage, was plain for anyone to see. The way Solona leaned her head toward Alistair as the two of them spoke quietly, how his hand stopped just short of touching hers as he reached for the map to make his case… it was pure stupidity from the top down. And while Morrigan would expect that Alistair would behave so,  _ Solona _ was more sensible than that. Or perhaps she  _ should be _ more sensible than that.

However. Their behavior was enough to raise one of Morrigan’s eyebrows. While she couldn’t say for  _ certain _ if the two of them were Voices, the obvious attraction that already existed was enough that it should have been stamped out the moment it was felt. The Circle ought to have done that much; it was the only thing Mother had ever praised them for.

“No, really,” Alistair said, “we can go to the Tower first, it might even be better. We’re more likely to convince Arl Eamon to put an army behind us if we’ve already got someone else’s confidence.”

“Now you’re just repeating what I said about the dwarves and the Dalish,” Solona teased. “And honestly, it’s more likely  _ the other way around. _ It’s not the First Enchanter I’m worried about convincing; it’s the Knight-Commander. He only let  _ seven _ mages go to Ostagar --”

“Eight,” Alistair corrected, nudging her shoulder with a smile.

“Oh, fine, eight,” Solona said, sighing. “But he didn’t  _ want _ me to go, that’s for damn sure. But if we’ve got the men of Redcliffe behind us, he might just be persuaded to let us have a few more mages in this trying time. Or, Void, even some Templars. I’d take either or both, whatever we can get.”

“I understand that,” Alistair replied. “But I haven’t seen the Arl in years. Last he knew me, I was a little boy, and he might not have much confidence in me --  _ I  _ certainly don’t -- and so, already  _ having _ allies would warm him to the cause.”

“Then couldn’t we just show him the treaties themselves, and have  _ that _ work in our favor? Assuming, of course, that you’re right and he  _ will _ be hesitant to the idea.”

“Well, I suppose, but --”

“ _ Parshaara, _ ” Sten’s voice boomed.

The two Wardens’ heads shot up to look at him. Solona was blushing hard enough that Morrigan could see it, even at a distance in the dim.

“Is that Qunari for ‘shut up’?” Solona asked, smiling sheepishly.

Sten ignored her question. “Which is closer?” he asked.

“Redcliffe,” Solona said.

“ _ Marginally _ ,” Alistair insisted.

“Go there first.”

“But --”

“It is closer,” Sten said. “ _ Go there first. _ ”

Solona chuckled; Alistair looked annoyed; Morrigan wished she believed in a Maker, simply so she could thank it. Alistair went to fetch more firewood, and Solona folded up the map and walked over toward Morrigan’s corner of the camp. 

“I have a wonder, if you’ll indulge me,” Morrigan said as soon as Solona approached.

“Of course,” Solona replied, her most accommodating face on.

“For two individuals who have known each other  _ such _ a short time, you and Alistair are already quite… close. Why is that?”

Solona had the grace at least to blush.

“Well. We -- we just -- we get on well, is all.”

“Indeed? That is  _ all _ ?”

Solona’s blush deepened. 

“Why do you ask?”

Not an outright denial. How curious.

“An idle observation of mine,” Morrigan said airily, “you needn’t worry about it further.”

“Right,” Solona replied, smoothing her hair. “Right.”

Solona returned to the main section of the camp without speaking to Morrigan further, which was unusual, but nothing to be concerned about. Solona was easily flustered, and that was probably all the reason she’d needed to wander away.

Still. One had to wonder how anyone could believe in a Maker so cruel as to bond a competent Circle mage to a Templar idiot. And how that competent Circle mage could be so very foolish as to allow it.

“Love is nothing but weakness,” Flemeth had often said to Morrigan, and, as a young girl, she’d taken it to heart. She’d done her best to ignore her Voice in the Fade, which was fairly simple, as he’d lived a reasonably-idyllic life until his untimely death just before Ostagar. He hadn’t called to her much. 

(Odd that somehow Solona ended up with his warhound. Not that Morrigan would ever mention that. Not that the mongrel would ever  _ know _ , since Morrigan had never  _ met _ her Voice, let alone  _ bonded  _ with him.)

(And yet, Morrigan was wise enough to know that,  _ had _ anything happened with her Voice, both of them would likely have lived to regret it. And so she was grateful, in some way, to Flemeth for refusing to allow her to seek him out.)

(Morrigan had to ignore the small  _ pang _ in her chest when thinking of it. She had become too good at ignoring such things, however, and it would pass in a moment.)

Solona sat apart from the others, cooling her cheeks. While she was too far away to hear from here, for which Morrigan truly  _ was _ grateful, Morrigan  _ could _ see Alistair approaching her after he returned from fetching firewood. She observed Solona’s movements: halting, hesitant -- certainly less easy than they had been before. Alistair responded in kind. Perhaps he thought  _ he _ had done something wrong.

Morrigan supposed that he had, in a way. As much as he was evidently beginning to care for Solona, he would not be so heartless as to continue down the path they were on if told it would hurt her in the end.

And given Flemeth’s instructions to Morrigan… it almost certainly would.


	15. Alistair

The sun was close to setting when they arrived in Redcliffe. Well. Just _outside_ Redcliffe, really, they weren’t in the village proper yet. Alistair was taking it all in slowly, and Solona slowed her pace so she didn’t leave him behind. (They’d decided it might be best to leave the apostate and the Qunari back at their nearby camp, Barkspawn had been sleeping, and Leliana had asked to stay behind, since everyone else was.)

He didn’t mean to delay them. It was just _weird_ , seeing Redcliffe again. Last time he’d been here, he was a boy, frightened and angry about being sent away to the Chantry.  Alistair had remembered everything being… bigger. Grander. More impressive, somehow. But here it was. He could have walked down this hill blindfolded. Granted, he probably would have tripped on a rock or something, but still. He’d make it down the hill. Alistair could see the windmill in the distance, could hear the rush of the water as it barrelled its way down past them, and he decided… If he was going to see Arl Eamon, he was going to have to fill Solona in. About him. The _whole_ truth.

She’d been so quiet the last few days, and he’d been racking his brain to try to think of what he could have said or done to upset her. He’d come up with nothing, so either he was as stupid as Morrigan said he was, or it had been something else that had shaken her. He didn’t know, and she didn’t seem eager to talk about it. Or, well, anything. So he’d put it off, but now… there was no putting it off anymore.

The big question was: _how would she react?_ He wasn’t even sure how he _wanted_ her to react. If she _didn’t_ like him because of his blood, that would hurt, sure, but if she _started_ liking him because of it… that would hurt more.

Ugh. Not for the first time, he wished Maric could have stayed faithful to his real wife. Or, at least, that he’d been _somebody’s_ trueborn son. Alistair wasn’t responsible for the cause, so it seemed unfair that he was responsible for the effect.

“Look, Solona, can we talk for a moment?” he asked quietly. “I need to tell you something I… probably should have told you earlier.”

She took a step closer and -- and just… _looked_ at him with that open expression of hers and his jaw unhinged for a minute. 

“I… did I mention to you how I know Arl Eamon?”

“He raised you,” Solona said, then bit her lip. “At -- at least, I -- Isn’t that what you said?”

Alistair hadn’t remembered mentioning it, but he must have, if Solona knew. Or maybe she’d guessed. Well, that was one awkward confession out of the way.

“Right. Well. My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle, did I mention that? And Arl Eamon took me in. And the reason he did that -- is because -- my father… was King Maric. Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose.”

And it was out there. Alistair scanned her expression, hoping that she wouldn’t be either too put off or too put _on_ by this. She looked down for a moment, then met his eyes with an unreadable, stoic look.

“You _royal bastard,_ ” she said. But it didn’t have any heat behind it. A moment later, she snorted and broke out into just… the biggest grin.

Thank the _Maker_ , she was joking. Alistair had to chuckle, himself.

“Sorry,” she said, giggling. “I couldn’t resist.”

“No, don’t apologize! I should use that line more often,” Alistair replied.

Why had he been so worried about her reaction? Solona just… _got_ him. Without him having to really say anything, even. How many times would she have to prove that to him before it finally sank in?

“I would have told you, but it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it.”

Solona was quiet, looking at what had to be a very interesting plant just to the left. The silence stretched between them, and Solona took a deep breath -- then shook her head. Alistair sighed and softened. This wasn’t the moment to let his bitterness show.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know as long as possible.”

“Oh, believe me, I get it,” Solona said, _sotto voce._ She cleared her throat. “Thank you for telling me, Alistair. Not to cheapen the moment, but how secret do you want this to be? Is this a just-between-us thing, or are you planning on telling the others?”

“I -- they can know. I’d rather not have this conversation more than once, but they should know what they’re getting into.”

“Would you rather I told them?” Solona asked.

“Yes? Please? If -- if you don’t mind, that is.”

She smiled. “If I minded, I wouldn’t have offered.”

Alistair grinned back at her. She was -- no one had ever shown him that sort of kindness. Not until the Grey Wardens, anyhow.

Solona blinked, and her smile vanished.

“Alistair,” she said, “do you think Loghain knows?”

“Why wouldn’t he? He and Maric were best friends.”

“Hm. Well, then, we need to find out if he knows you _survived_ the battle. If he doesn’t, we need to keep that information from him as long as we can.”

She met his eyes briefly, then swallowed and looked away.

“I don’t want him coming after you,” she said.

Solona looked so small and so frightened, Alistair was seized by a sudden impulse to _do something_ . But he didn’t even know what _to_ do. He _wanted_ to hold her close and tell her it would be all right, but he couldn’t say that it definitely _would_ be all right, and anyway they’d only really just _met_ and he didn’t know if that was at all appropriate. So he decided to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder but he didn’t know if _that_ was appropriate, either, so they just sort of stood there, Solona looking away and Alistair staring at her, his hand awkwardly hovering between the two of them.

And he was so concerned with how to comfort her that the substance and subtext of what she said flew completely past him.

“At any rate, that’s it. That’s what I had to tell you. I -- thought you should know about it,” he said. “So.. can we move on? And I’ll pretend you still think I’m some nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

He’d _meant_ that to be flippant. He was _aiming_ for flippant. He did _not_ expect to feel a sudden, firm grasp on his hand and to see Solona look somewhere in the range of _horrified._

“Alistair, that’s not what I’ve _ever_  -- that’s not what _you_ think, is it?”

Those big blue eyes were practically boring holes into him, and she was _holding his hand_ , and Alistair didn’t really know what to say. Because, of course, _no_ , he hadn’t genuinely thought that Solona’s opinion of him was that low, but also sort of _yes_ ? Alistair _was_ some nobody whose only positive attribute right now was not dying when he was supposed to.

“I -- well -- no. At least… at least I can help make things right. And I’m not alone.”

There was that sad smile again. And she let go of his hand, _just as_ a young man ran up to them.

“I _thought_ I saw travelers coming down the road. Have you come to help us?”

Alistair caught Solona’s concerned glance -- and shrugged. _He_ hadn’t heard anything about any trouble in Redcliffe, but his mind was going a mile a minute. What was going on here? Was there a problem in the castle, or was it a problem in the village itself? But if it were a problem in the village, why hadn’t the arl intervened? And if it were a problem in just the castle, why was this villager so concerned? Were the people all right? Was Arl Eamon all right? What had happened?

“We’re… always happy to help,” Solona said. “What do you need?”

“You -- you don’t _know?_ Has nobody out there heard? We’re under attack! Monsters come out of the castle every night and attack us until dawn. Everyone’s been fighting… and dying. We’ve no army to defend us, no arl, and no king to send us help. So many are dead, and the rest are terrified they’ll be next.”

_No arl? Why not? What happened to Arl Eamon? Focus, Alistair. One thing at a time._

“Hold on, what is this evil that’s attacking you?” Alistair asked.

“I.. don’t rightly know. I’m sorry, nobody does,” the man said. “I should take you to Bann Teagan. He’s all that’s holding us together. He’ll want to see you.”

“Bann Teagan? Arl Eamon’s brother? He’s here?” Alistair felt a small ray of hope. Bann Teagan was always a sensible fellow. He’d know what was going on. But then again, he was the heir to the arling, after Arl Eamon’s son. Bann Teagan being _here_ could mean any number of things… and very few of them were good.

“Yes. It’s not far, if you’ll come with me.”

Solona and Alistair shared a look, as they followed the young man down the hill and into the Chantry.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Alistair admitted quietly.

“Neither do I. An evil no one can explain? Hopefully Bann Teagan has some answers for us.”

“He will,” Alistair said.

With more confidence than he had any right to feel, of course. He hadn’t seen Bann Teagan since he was nine. Maker, a _decade_ ago. When had he gotten all _old?_

The young man led them into the Chantry. Maker’s breath, it looked _exactly_ the same as thenight before he’d left, even with old Revered Mother Hannah still at the front. Well. There had been fewer terrified villagers in it the last time he was here, but the _building_ looked the same. And there was Bann Teagan himself. He’d gone a bit gray since Alistair had last seen him, and his face had gone pale with worry, but everything else about him was much the same.

The young man introduced them, and Bann Teagan didn’t seem to recognize Alistair. It was stupid to be disappointed by that, of course, it had been _ten years_ , and it’s not like the Bann had lived with them, but still. It hurt a bit.

“Greetings, friends,” Bann Teagan said, in that kind voice of his. “My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the arl.”

“I remember you, Bann Teagan,” Alistair said, “though the last time we met, I was a lot younger -- and covered in mud.”

“Covered in mud?” the Bann asked. “ _Alistair?_ It _is_ you, isn’t it? You’re alive! This is wonderful news!”

Alistair could tell by the sudden start and stop of Bann Teagan’s motions that he’d been debating going in for a hug. Alistair extended a hand instead -- which Teagan eagerly took in both of his own.

“Still alive, yes. Though not for long, if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it.”

“Indeed. Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things.”

Alistair… hadn’t told them he was a Grey Warden. He hadn’t spoken or written to the arl since he’d been sent away to the Chantry. So they’d been… checking up on him?

Oh, wait. He was a royal bastard. Of _course_ they were. (Part of him desperately wanted to believe that they had wanted to know about him for _his own_ sake, though. Ten years away didn’t make his need for their approval vanish, apparently.)

“I think introductions are in order, Alistair,” Bann Teagan said gently.

“Oh! Right. Of course. This -- this is Solona. She’s… she’s a Grey Warden. Like me.”

“A Grey Warden and a mage of the Circle. I’m glad to meet you,” she said with a polite bow.

Bann Teagan smiled warmly at her.

“A pleasure to meet you as well, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“So… what’s been going on here? That young man, Tomas, I think? He said that Redcliffe was being attacked.”

“We are. It started a few nights ago. Evil… things… surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault.”

“Tomas said he didn’t know what sort of evil it was. Do you know?”

“They appear to be walking corpses. The dead returning to life with a hunger for human flesh.”

Solona’s eyes went wide. Alistair’s probably did too. That… was bad. Really, really bad. Like, scary-magic-bad.

“Each night they come, with greater numbers,” Bann Teagan went on. “With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help.”

“What about Arl Eamon?” Solona asked softly.

Part of Alistair didn’t want to hear this answer. If the corpses were coming _from_ the castle, then…

“No one has heard from the castle since before the attacks began. No guards patrol the wall, and no one has responded to my shouts.”

Alistair wanted to sink into the ground. He’d _told_ Solona that if they came here, Arl Eamon would help them, and now, Arl Eamon was… He felt a steadying hand on his shoulder. Solona was looking up at him with sympathy shining in her eyes -- or maybe those were tears.

“It will be sundown soon, and I have a feeling tonight’s assault will be the worst yet. Alistair, I hate to ask, but I desperately need the help of you and your friend,” Bann Teagan pleaded.

“It isn’t just up to me --” Alistair started.

“Of _course_ we’ll help,” Solona interrupted, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“Thank you! Thank you… This means more to me than you can guess,” Teagan said.

“We actually have a few other friends at our camp. They’ll help, too. I can run and get them, and I’ll be back shortly,” Solona said. “Redcliffe won’t be in this fight alone.”

Solona bowed quickly and ran off.

“Neither will the Grey Wardens, when the time comes. I swear it,” Teagan said quietly, once she’d gone.

“You -- don’t believe Loghain… do you?” Alistair asked.

“What, that he pulled his men in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory? Hardly,” Teagan scoffed. “Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king. I don’t believe it. It is an act of a desperate man.”

Alistair could have hugged him. He hated Loghain for what he did, and for what he was saying about the Grey Wardens -- and by extension, about Cailan and especially Duncan. But Alistair was glad at least that _this one_ person didn’t believe it. It gave Alistair hope that maybe there were _more_ who didn’t believe it.  

“Bann Teagan, I don’t want to pry, but… what _happened_ to Arl Eamon?” Alistair asked.

“I don’t know, exactly. He… fell ill, and was in grave condition, last I knew.”

“I’m so sorry. I -- don’t really know what else to say, but…”

“Thank you,” Bann Teagan said.

Arl Eamon ill. It was certainly better than he’d feared. Still, it was bad enough. He knew Teagan would help the Grey Wardens, but he didn’t have the same authority Arl Eamon had -- not in the Landsmeet, anyway, though the common folk adored him. Arl Eamon could help bring the country back from the civil war Loghain seemed determined to start. Bann Teagan would try his level best, but it just might not be enough.

“Your young lady seems nice.”

“She is. Really, she’s… wait. No, she’s not -- we’re just --”

Bann Teagan chuckled.

“I apologize, Alistair. But, you see, I need someone new to tease. I’ve only got one nephew left, and he’s too young yet.”

Alistair smiled. He’d always been fond of Bann Teagan. Apparently, it had gone both ways.

“That’s -- that’s fine by me,” Alistair said.

Teagan was called away by one of the villagers, and he had to go. Alistair stood awkwardly at the front of the Chantry. He wanted to go and help, but he also wanted Solona and the others to be able to find him.

It was only an hour until sundown when Morrigan, Leliana, Sten, and Barkspawn walked through the doors.

“Solona said she will rejoin us after she is finished speaking with the mayor,” Leliana explained, before going to Mother Hannah and offering what little assistance she had to hand. Barkspawn entertained a small cluster of frightened children, while Sten stood guard by the door and glared at everyone who came in.

Morrigan stood next to Alistair. _Great._

“I am curious about something, Alistair,” Morrigan said.

“Oh, are you? Then why are you asking me?”

Morrigan ignored that.

“When you told Solona of your parentage, did she seem at all… surprised?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I simply wanted to ask if she had any kind of reaction to the news.”

“She -- made a joke. To make all the… awkward go away, I’m sure.”

“Interesting.”

“What do you mean, ‘interesting’?”

“I simply would have expected someone being confronted with such vital knowledge to have had a stronger reaction,” Morrigan said. “And now she is off preparing for this battle… and she has left _you_ behind.”

“I --” Alistair didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to defend Solona, to believe that she wasn’t treating him the same way Duncan and Cailan had treated him during battles… but she was off preparing, and he was here, in the Chantry, doing nothing in particular.

Maybe… maybe she had been more affected by the “royal bastard” thing than she’d let on. Or maybe… Morrigan was messing with him. Solona had been nothing but kind and thoughtful since they’d met. He’d even _told_ her that everyone always left him behind. She’d understand. She’d never do that to him on purpose. She _got_ him. Right?

“Solona has her reasons for doing it this way. And I know that if I ask, she’ll tell me what they are,” Alistair said.

Morrigan stared at him with an unreadable expression.

“What?” he asked.

“You seem very certain. You’ve not known each other long.”

“I know her well enough to trust her.”

Morrigan said nothing, but Alistair could practically _feel_ the waves of disapproval oozing off of her. Not that it mattered whether Morrigan approved of him or not. But something in him rankled at the idea that Morrigan didn’t approve of _Solona._ As if _she_ could lead them any better than _Solona_ did. Honestly. Solona led them with caring, compassion, and empathy; she was the perfect person to show Ferelden that the Grey Wardens weren’t the traitors Loghain said they were. She didn’t deserve to be second-guessed by the likes of _Morrigan._

“Why don’t _you_ trust her?’ Alistair asked.

“I? I said nothing about my opinion of our leader. I simply inquired into the nature of _your_ relations with her.”

“Relations? There’s _no_ ‘relations’ between me and her, thank you.”

“Truly? How interesting.”

‘Interesting’ again. Maker. He wasn’t going to give Morrigan the gratification of asking this time. But it seemed she wanted to clarify anyway, because she went on.

“I suppose that’s better. I’m certain there are rules against two Grey Wardens who… fraternize. It seems most undisciplined, for an organization that claims it will do anything to end the Blight.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other,” Alistair said.

“Oh no? And what if a Grey Warden was forced to choose between the Warden he loved and ending the Blight? What should his choice be?”

“That is… a ridiculous question.”

“And I have my answer. Most kind of you.”

With that, Morrigan walked away. It was just as well, anyway. She was trying to knock him off balance, he could see that much. Even worse, he knew full well that it had _worked._ Damn her.

The Wardens didn’t have any such rule that he knew of, and anyway, it _was_ a ridiculous question. Nothing was certain in these times, but he was fully confident that Solona would find a way to end the Blight without having to make any horrible sacrifices like that. She was smart enough -- _good_ enough -- to figure something out. The last vestiges of his faith, the bit the Chantry hadn’t beaten out of him, were centered around that. The Maker would not be so cruel as to give him one person who understood him just to take her away. He believed that. He _had_ to believe that.

Wait.

Morrigan said... making a choice between ending the Blight and “the Warden he loved”... He -- he didn’t… he’d never… they’d only _just met_ , really. No. No, not yet. It was too soon to say anything like that.

And then the Chantry doors opened, and Solona herself came in. The nearly setting sun streamed in behind her, catching in her dark hair and making her seem to glow. Her eyes landed on him, and she smiled, her whole face softening with what looked like real joy.

_Oh._

Something in Alistair melted as he smiled back and waved to her.

And the idea that he might… care for her -- like _that_ … fluttered gently into his heart, like a butterfly, and just rested there, waiting for them both to be ready.


	16. Solona

The time was inching ever-closer to sunrise, and Solona had come to one fateful conclusion: fighting the undead _sucked._

Solona’s last-minute idea to set a barrel’s worth of lamp oil on fire had worked to slow them down, but it hadn’t stopped them the way she’d hoped, damn it. She had hoped to leave this hilltop with a -- no-pun-intended -- skeleton crew while she, her team, and the knights defended the village proper.

But she _couldn’t_ leave this hill to go and help, despite the shouting she heard. If the makeshift soldiers here fell, the ones at the _bottom_ of the hill would too. And then the undead would _massacre_ the innocent villagers in the Chantry. The elderly, the children… Bann Teagan himself.

She didn’t need to take a glance at Alistair to know that would be bad. He’d lost so much already, between Duncan, the Wardens, the King, possibly Arl Eamon himself… she couldn’t let Bann Teagan fall too.  

But she was no veteran commander of armies. She was a sheltered little girl, fresh off her Harrowing, who’d read maybe one or two books on military tactics _ever_ , on recommendation from Cullen, and even then, the books were more historical than anything else -- and _focus_ , Solona, they _need_ you.

There was only one thing for it: split the team.

“Knights! Stay here and defend the path. Sten, Morrigan, you can help. Leliana, Alistair, Barkspawn, you’re with me. We need to keep the villagers safe. Whatever happens, the Chantry can’t fall.”

Sten grunted an acknowledgement, and the knights saluted. Morrigan didn’t say anything, but then, she didn’t have to.

Alistair practically overtook her on the race down the hill -- of course he did, he was worried about this village, it was his _home,_ after all -- and they walked right into a melee.

_Grand._

Alistair charged forward, almost knocking over a villager in his haste to get to the undead, and Leliana found a spot in the shadow of the Chantry to fire arrows in relative darkness. She shot one corpse directly in the head before Solona had figured out what she was even going to do down here.

Freezing the floor -- her new favorite trick -- was as likely to help the undead as it was to help the villagers. So that was out. But maybe… she could keep any _further_ undead from coming in and flanking them all.  Summoning up all the power she had, she inhaled… and a _wall_ of pure ice appeared around the rickety fortifications. It was taller than she’d have been if she’d sat on Sten’s shoulders, and thicker than _both_ of his arms.

Solona blinked. She… hadn’t expected that. She was low on mana from the spell, sure, but pure spellpower like this had never been her strength. She was better at specialized _application_ of spellpower than… just raw mana.

Alistair shot her an approving grin from where he was engaged with one of the walking corpses, and a few villagers turned and stared at her, open-mouthed. Solona squirmed uncomfortably, before remembering that this was a battle and firing off an Arcane Missile spell at a nearby corpse. (The missiles were larger than she’d intended and took about half an inch off Mayor Murdock’s mustache.) She could deal with their opinions, low or high, when they’d _survived_ this.

“How long will that last?” Alistair called over to her, gesturing toward the wall.

“A few minutes? Should give us time to deal with these assholes and regroup,” Solona said.

Alistair nodded at her, and with the help of the villagers, all of the undead inside the wall of ice were dealt with quickly.

However, there were at least a dozen more standing _just outside_ the wall.

“What do we do?” Alistair asked, panting hard.

“Everyone pull back to the Chantry steps. Anyone who can use a bow, arrows on strings. Everyone else, just wait,” Solona said.

Alistair looked confused -- as did several villagers -- but they did as she ordered. Solona stood boldly in front of them, waiting. Worried, of course. She didn’t really know what she was doing, but she had an idea.

And if she had learned anything from the ice wall and the missiles… she could do this.

The ice wall disappeared, and the corpses rushed forward. Solona planted her feet firmly and pushed her mana into the ground -- then roughly yanked it all back _up._

The ground came with it.

So did the corpses.

The distant _sploosh_ noise they made sounded like at least _some_ of the undead had landed in the lake. The _cheers_ from right behind her made it clear that _all_ of the undead were gone for now.

Solona fell to her knees; breathing felt like scraping the bottom of an empty bottle, but the corpses were delayed -- if not mostly gone. She felt a hand on each of her elbows, lifting her up, and a furry head under her chin. Two blurry figures and a blurry dog practically carried her back to the Chantry steps, where someone pushed a skin of water into her hand.

“How long have you been able to do _that?_ ” she heard Leliana’s voice whisper in a tone of wonder.

“I have no idea,” she said, trying to decide which of the Lelianas near her should get her eye contact. “I just thought of it.”

“Is it getting lighter out, or is it just me?” Alistair’s voice said, slightly farther off.

“We should -- we should do a sweep of the village before sunrise,” Solona said. “Make sure all the undead are gone.”

She tried to stand up, but felt a strong pair of hands on her shoulders, gently but firmly holding her back.

“If by ‘we,’ you mean Leliana, Barkspawn, and me, then sure. But _you_ are sitting right here.”

“That’s -- but --”

“I have to agree with Alistair,” the Lelianas said. “You need to rest.” It was looking like the Leliana on the right was the real one; she was getting clearer every minute.

She felt a doggy head nudge her elbow, not-so-subtly asking for petting. Solona chuckled and felt around for a pair of Mabari ears to scratch.

“This is mutiny,” Solona said, unable to repress her smile. They really were starting to care about her, weren’t they?

“Yes, well. You’re going to have to get used to it,” Alistair replied. “I’m not going to let you hurt yourself, not even with a really good reason.”

“What if I had a healer write a note giving me permission?”

“ _You’re_ the healer.”

She could hear the smile in his voice -- one day, maybe, she wouldn’t have to rely on aural cues to figure out what he was really feeling. And that thought -- and what it entailed -- made her blush _furiously_ and look down at the blurry ground.

“Are you all right?” Leliana asked.

“I’m -- I’m fine,” Solona squeaked.

Solona heard the trio walk away, and she hid her face in her hands, rubbing at her eyes to give herself some plausible deniability.

Even with her poor eyesight, she could tell Alistair had been right: it _was_ getting lighter out.

Sunrise.

They’d made it.

“Fuck of a thing you did there, Warden. Thank you,” Mayor Murdock’s voice came from her left.

“How many did we lose?” Solona asked.

“Of the knights? Can’t say. But the villagers --”

“Ah, and here we find you. My lady, we are grateful for your assistance,” one of the knights -- Ser Perth, she thought -- called from farther away.

“The knights on the hill made it through all right?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady, all of us.”

“ _All_ of you?”

Mayor Murdock’s sudden laugh rang _very loudly_ through her head.

“Teagan is going to _shit_ himself!”

“I hardly find that appropriate --” Ser Perth interrupted.

“Shove it, Perth. Warden, _we didn’t lose anyone from the village, either.”_

“We -- everyone made it?”

“Yeah, Warden. We did.”

Solona was absolutely gobsmacked. She _had_ to tell Alistair -- the others, that is. They’d be so pleased.

“Ser Perth, if you’d let my friends on top of the hill know that it’s all clear down here, I’d be forever grateful.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“And could someone help me up, please?”

“You appear unwell. Rest would be --”

“Sure thing, up we get.”

Murdock hoisted her up.

“Your other friends -- and little Alistair, can’t _believe_ he’s all grown up -- went off toward the docks,” he said.

“Thanks. Would you mind…?”

“Aiming you?” Murdock laughed and turned her slightly to the left, “There you are.”

“Thanks.”

He grunted.

Solona blinked a few more times, and could somewhat see at least blurry shapes in front of her. Getting out of the barricade only involved her bumping into three villagers, which was better than she’d thought she would do.

In the distance, she saw a blurry trio -- two humans and a dog -- and called out.

“Alistair? Leliana?”

The blurry dog bounded toward her, whimpering at her as if she could pick him up.

“I thought you were waiting by the Chantry,” Leliana said, smiling.

“So did I,” Alistair added.

“We didn’t lose anybody.”

“What?” Alistair asked.

“Everyone made it, Alistair. _Everyone.”_

Alistair grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up into the air for the huge, joyous hug. He put her down after a long moment, but didn't let go.

“You did it,” he whispered as he held her close.

She pulled back slightly, looking him in the eyes -- one of the few things she could see clearly. Gently, she put a hand on his cheek.

“ _We_ did it.”

He made a small noise, like he was deeply touched.

They stood there for a minute, the weight of something momentous between them, keeping them still. He was staring into her eyes and… and wow, he was _really tall_ , wasn’t he? And… and something about the intensity of the look he was giving Solona took her breath away. She could easily see herself rising onto her tiptoes to kiss him, like she’d been dreaming about doing for… quite some time -- before her dreams became infested with darkspawn, anyway.

And then she remembered they’d only just _met_ and this was all moving _way too quickly_. From his perspective, they’d known each other a matter of what, two weeks?

_You’re not even putting the cart before the horse; the horse is a foal and the cart isn’t built yet. Don’t rush things, Solona._

And as much as she might have wanted to have a long talk with Alistair about everything, to come clean and be fully honest… she had to admit the idea terrified her. She couldn’t tell him _now_ , not after he’d lost everyone he cared about, not after Duncan. What if he thought she was trying to wallpaper over his grief with this? Hey, don’t be sad about your dead mentor anymore! You’ve got a soulmate now!

Even more than that, she’d never -- been interested in someone like this. (The closest thing she’d had was with Cullen, where the two of them were attracted to each other to some degree, and tacitly agreed nothing would happen. And that was a whisper of a feeling compared to _this_ .) She had all the grace of a twelve-year-old boy when it came right down to it. She wasn’t even sure how to start the conversation about Voices and what they were, let alone what to do about it once they’d _had_ that conversation.

So, for now, Solona pulled back, biting her lip slightly and looking away.

“We should -- we should tell Bann Teagan and the others in the Chantry the good news. They’ll want to hear it,” she said.

“Oh! Right, of course. We should. And… there don’t seem to be any more undead in the village itself. We killed a few who climbed out of the lake, but there weren’t any more.”

Face burning, Solona led the way back to the Chantry.

 _Maker,_ this was going to be difficult.

* * *

“Dawn arrives, and all of us remain! We are victorious!” Bann Teagan announced, long after everyone had heard the news.

Still, the cheers from all the village folk were loud enough to cause a ringing in Solona’s ears. She loved them for it.

“I thank you all,” Bann Teagan said. “The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour.”

“We were glad to help, my lord,” Solona replied with a small bow.

She saw Alistair and Bann Teagan exchange a look -- but it seemed to be a happy one. She was glad for them both.

“Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe,” Mother Hannah said.

Solona heard derisive snorts from both Sten and Morrigan, and wished she could elbow them to remind them to hold their noise. As it was, she was standing too far away to make that happen, and she didn’t want to use any more magic in front of this crowd. They’d had reason enough to fear it turned against them; she didn’t want to give them any more. As it was, she simply remained silent, head bowed, during the prayer. She didn’t believe in the Maker herself, not to any significant degree, but she didn’t see a need to be disrespectful.

“My lady, and Alistair, would you two accompany me? I’d like to ask for more information on the enemies you defeated last night.”

“O-of course,” Solona stammered.

Something in Bann Teagan’s tone suggested that this wasn’t just going to be a casual stroll. Silently, he led the pair of them up the hill to the windmill. From there, they could see the castle. It looked almost like a painting of a castle, rather than the real thing. It was so… still.

Bann Teagan thought so, too.

“You’d think nobody was inside at all,” he remarked. “But I shouldn’t delay things further. I had a plan to enter the castle once the village was secure.”

“Oh! Good, then. I was wondering what the plan was,” Alistair said.

“There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family.”

“An… escape tunnel, should the need arise?” Solona asked.

“Yes, exactly. I would have gone into the castle myself, but I could not leave the villagers.”

Just as Solona was about to tell Bann Teagan that she thought he’d done the right thing, something caught his attention. He rushed forward with a sincere _Maker’s breath!_

Oh. It was _her_.

The woman who was responsible for making Alistair sleep in the stables. The woman who’d destroyed any scrap of affection passing between Alistair and the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. The woman who, right now, was running toward them in absurd Orlesian high-heeled shoes, calling out for Teagan in a horrid accent. (Not a lovely accent like Leliana had, no. This woman's accent sounded like she was trying to pull a string of beads out through her nostrils while she spoke.)

Solona had seen enough of Alistair’s dreams to know and hate her on sight: Arlessa Isolde.

“Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live!”

She saw how Alistair instinctively tensed, and hated this lady all the more. It was heartburn-hate.

“Isolde! You’re alive! How did you… what has happened?”

“I do not have much time to explain. I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly.” Lady Isolde looked down and swallowed hard before continuing. “And I… need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone.”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding.”

Solona hadn’t _meant_ to say it, it just… slipped out. Apparently, she could hold back her hatred or her tongue, but not both. 

Isolde fixed her with an icy stare.

“What -- who is this _woman_ , Teagan?”

Alistair stepped between the two of them, gently nudging Solona behind him with his shoulder.

“You remember me, Lady Isolde, don’t you?” he asked, sounding weary already.

Isolde examined his face, then recoiled.

“ _Alistair._ Of all the… Why are _you_ here?”

If Alistair hadn’t literally been standing in front of her, Solona might just have lit this ungrateful wench’s hair on fire. _He’s here out of concern for_ your _village and_ your _husband, you_ harpy.

“They are Grey Wardens, Isolde. I owe them my life,” Bann Teagan cut in mildly.

“Pardon me, I… I would exchange pleasantries, but… considering the circumstances…”

“Please, Lady Isolde,” Alistair said, “we had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We _must_ have some answers.”

“I know you need more of an explanation, but I… I do not know what is safe to tell,” she replied, directing her answer at Teagan, rather than Alistair. “Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues.”

She paused here, as if choosing her words carefully.

“And I think… Connor is going mad. We have survived, but he won’t flee the castle. He has seen so much death,” she said. “You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle! You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do.”

A small child not fleeing a place with literal undead? She’d found a young boy named Bevin hiding in a wardrobe in the village. He was probably _older_ than Connor, and _he_ was frightened enough to run and hide. There was something else to it.

“But,” Bann Teagan said, “I do not understand what you mean by this evil. Did it create the walking corpses? What is it?”

“Something the mage unleashed. So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others… were not so fortunate. It’s killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village!” Isolde said, sounding close to tears. Solona felt some sympathy -- but more for the ones who had died, and for Connor and Arl Eamon. Isolde was _far_ down on the list.

“It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help!”

_Demon._

Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions, but the idea made too much sense. Isolde had mentioned a mage, it would take _powerful_ magic to reanimate this many dead, and Arl Eamon’s life was being sustained.

But… there were a few missing pieces.

“The mage you mentioned…” she said.

“He is an… infiltrator, I think. One of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. _That_ is why Eamon fell ill.”

“Eamon was _poisoned?_ ” Bann Teagan sounded thunderstruck. And from the stiffening in Alistair’s shoulders, he wasn’t taking the news any better.

“He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain’s hired him. He may be lying, however. I cannot say.”

That answered the question of _who would want Arl Eamon dead_ right out of the gate. The arl was, from Alistair’s report, popular with the people. _And_ he was the person with first-hand knowledge of a potential challenger to the throne with Theirin blood. _Of course_ Loghain’s hand was in this.

But something still wasn’t adding up: why would a demon summoned by Arl Eamon’s _poisoner_ want to keep him alive? Guilt, maybe? He decided he didn’t want to go through with it and tried to undo everything via demon summoning? Weak-sounding motive, but potentially plausible.

Deep-seated hatred aside, Solona was damn sure Isolde wasn’t telling them everything.

“The king is dead, and we need my brother now more than ever. I will return to the castle with you, Isolde.”

“Thank the Maker! Bless you, Teagan! Bless you!”

“Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? The Grey Wardens and I must confer in private before I go with you.”

“Please do not take too long. I will be by the bridge.”

The moment Isolde was out of earshot, Teagan looked at Alistair and Solona with something akin to pride. Confidence, perhaps.

“I have no intentions of dealing with this evil alone.”

“We had no intentions of letting you,” Solona said.

Bann Teagan smiled thinly at her.

“Here’s what I propose: I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. Perhaps I will… distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?”

“I say…  I would urge caution. This sounds like a demon to me, and any demon that could kill so many in the castle and the village is _formidable,_ my lord. I understand that you must go, but please, please be careful. ”

He handed her the signet ring, saying, “Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else… we’re expendable.”

“Apologies, but that’s not an order I can follow,” Solona replied. “We will _all_ get out of this, I swear it.”

Bann Teagan smiled again, but warmer and more genuine this time.

“You’re a good woman. The Maker smiled upon me indeed when he sent you to Redcliffe. Thank you _both_ ,” he said, looking at Alistair. “Allow me to bid you farewell… and good luck.”

Bann Teagan and Lady Isolde left; Solona watched them go with steely eyes. Once they were out of sight, she and Alistair turned toward the mill, as if their thoughts were already synchronized.

They descended into the tunnel in silence, until they heard a cry for help.

“Get off me! Leave me alone!”

Solona and Alistair broke into a run, barging through the door at the end of the tunnel which led to the dungeons. Three undead were reaching through a cell door, presumably to get at the prisoner within.

“Back, you monsters! Back!” the voice said.

Alistair didn't stop running and bashed into one corpse, taking it down with his shield while Solona used an Arcane Missile spell on the other two. These were obviously not controlled by very powerful demons, since they went down like a sack of kittens.

“Hello? Who’s there? Is there anyone alive out there?” the voice said.

_Oh, no. No no no no no._

Solona stepped forward, hesitant, because _she knew that voice_. A familiar face with a familiar mop of dark hair made a familiar gasp in a familiar tone.

“Solona? Is that _you?_ ” he asked.

Solona’s mouth opened and closed several times, as she desperately racked her brains for something to say.

 _Oh, Jowan. How_ could _you?_


	17. Jowan

He had never expected to see Solona again.

After Jowan had run off, ashamed of how he’d acted, _furious_ with her, heartbroken by Lily -- he’d never _wanted_ to see any of them again.

And that was how Teyrn Loghain found him, a week of hiding in barns and haystacks later. Jowan hadn’t known who the man _was_ at the time, but he had a semi-favorable impression, all things considered. Instead of turning Jowan over to the Templars, he’d brought Jowan to a room in an inn, given him hot stew to eat and a bath to take. He even knocked on the door when he wanted to come in and interrogate Jowan.

“Please, sit,” the man said, gesturing to a small dining chair. Jowan hesitated a moment, because the paranoid part of him that had grown up in the Circle was whispering things like _what could this really be, what’s his angle, look for an avenue of escape._ Still, after a moment, he remembered the taste of the stew and the heat from the bath, and he sat.

“So, young man, I’m told you escaped from the Circle,” he’d drawled.

“I -- how do you know that?” Jowan had asked.

“It’s not important. What _is_ important is this: _what are you going to do now?”_

“I… well, I…” Jowan sighed. “I don’t rightly know.”

“Hmm. Perhaps I can help you. Or… perhaps we can help each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a particular person, someone who is plotting against Ferelden and her best interests. Someone who seems determined to weaken this country so that we could be easily taken over by Orlais… or any other country with… ideas.”

“That’s awful, but… what’s that got to do with me?”

“I’m told the man’s young son has started showing signs of magical talent. The mother, of course, fearful of losing her only child, is looking for someone outside the Circle to teach the boy.”

“You… want me to teach a child? I’m still an apprentice myself, I haven’t ever --”

“You needn’t do it for long. Or particularly well. The mother will never know the difference. What I want you to do is something… other than teaching.”

“What do you want me to do?” The man’s beating about the bush was starting to get annoying.

“If you can get this man -- _out of the way_ \-- you’d be doing Ferelden, and me, a great service. In return, I would be more than happy to… smooth over the unfortunate situation at the Circle Tower for you. Even the Knight-Commander would have to allow a _hero_ back into the fold, no?”

A _hero_. Jowan had never been the hero, not even in the stories in his own mind. Solona and Anders, as always, took the leading roles (and really, more Solona than Anders, to be honest). The one time Jowan had thought he was in any way important… well, _this_ was how it had ended: disgraced, cast out, on the run from the Templars, and now being offered one small lifeline by this unnamed but evidently powerful man.

But still… the word _hero,_ the thought of doing something truly great -- not just for himself, his friends, or the Circle, but for _Ferelden itself_ \-- even _Solona_ had never aimed that high. _Jowan_ could be the hero for once, and _Solona_ could be the bystander, impressed after the fact. Maybe she’d even apologize for betraying him and Lily. Maybe, as a hero, he could even accept it.

The man put his hand out to Jowan -- and he took it, shaking heartily. Into his other hand, the man put a little black bottle. Later, Jowan packed it into a small healing kit, like the ones he’d seen Solona and Anders make a hundred times for the stockroom.

Jowan and the bottle had been brought to Redcliffe shortly thereafter, posing as a simple apostate who had happened to hear of the “difficulties” that were going on in the family. So very sad. How could he help?

Arlessa Isolde was almost comically grateful, and told Jowan to say he was Connor’s new tutor, “Brother Levyn.” He adjusted to the name easier than he did to the Chantry robes, which just reminded him of Lily.

It wasn’t until the first time he’d had to slip the poison into Arl Eamon’s food that it started to really sink in: _I’m_ murdering _someone._

Still, though. The man that Jowan had by now identified as Teyrn Loghain had said Arl Eamon was going to betray the country. It was for _Ferelden,_ as much as for himself. Maybe even more.

And yet there were moments, like when he was trying to teach Connor or chatting with the Arl and Arlessa, that he could fool himself into thinking he _was_ just a simple tutor. He taught Connor about astronomy and history, as those had always been his favorite subjects -- though he flubbed some of the magical theory parts. Connor was a patient student, though, and he studied hard.

Over the next few weeks, the Arl started to become really unwell. Arlessa Isolde begged Jowan to do something, and he play-acted at healing, but every piece of elfroot that touched Arl Eamon was tainted by a drop from the little black bottle. One morning, the Arl collapsed in his room and was completely unresponsive.

 _It won’t be much longer now,_ Jowan thought, with a great deal of relief.

He should have expected that Arlessa would have ordered a real healer to come in.

The real healer took one look at Arl Eamon ( _pale face, rapid and uneven breathing, high fever, constant muscle twitching_ ) and declared he’d been poisoned.

Jowan apologized to Arlessa Isolde, saying _I only keep my healer’s kit for emergencies. I’ve never been much good at healing. If I’d known sooner, I would have told you._

He should never have mentioned the healer’s kit. He should never have used it in front of the Arlessa. He should never have packed it, keeping the little black bottle in his boot or something instead.

She ordered him to fetch it _at once_ , saying that the real healer needed all the supplies she could get. He couldn’t refuse an order.

Well, no fear, really. The bottle was  _empty_ now. He’d used all the poison anyway. This healer might be good, but surely she wouldn’t check every single bottle.

She did.

When Jowan woke up with a headache so bad even _he_ was certain it was a concussion, he was in the dungeons.

Well. No fear, really, right? Surely Loghain would find out what had happened soon. Surely he had someone watching out for Jowan. Surely, if he was really going to fix things with the Circle, he wouldn’t want to be compromised like this. Right?

It wasn’t until the Arlessa ordered her executioner to put him on the rack that he said anything about Loghain. She demanded that he tell her what had caused all of this, why he’d _done_ this to her and to her family, why he’d hurt all of Redcliffe this way. She wasn’t satisfied with his answers, but he had to give himself that much credit -- he’d tried his best. But, as usual, he failed.

No one was coming to his rescue. No one was going to save him from this. For a while, no one came at all.

Until the corpses. He didn’t even try to defend himself, not really. The bars of the cage would buy him some time, and anything he did would just damage them. He didn’t want to fight until he absolutely had to.

And then, just as suddenly, the corpses were dead. Standing in front of him was a young man -- armed and armored like a warrior -- and… no. No, it couldn’t be. She was in the _Tower._

“Solona? Is that _you?_ ” he asked, aghast.

The look she gave him in return -- heartbroken, crestfallen, _disappointed_ \-- answered better than any words ever could.

“Look, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but please, _please_ could you tell me -- what they did with Lily?”

“I -- I don’t know. Greagoir had her taken away somewhere, but I don’t know where, exactly. He’d mentioned Aeonar once, but…”

“Did anyone say anything about her? _Please_ , Solona.”

“If they did, I didn’t hear it,” she said. “I left the Tower shortly after you did.”

“You -- you did? Are you being hunted? Don’t they still have your phylactery?”

“They do, yes. But… I have permission. I was recruited into the Grey Wardens.”

“The G -- _the Grey Wardens?_ Straight from the _Circle?_ How did that happen? And what are you doing here?”

 _That’s what Irving meant when he said he’d take care of it, when I told him Solona’s Voice had died. He got her into the_ Wardens, _and he hadn’t wanted it getting out. Maker, I’m an_ idiot.

“I’d have told you everything, but you were… preoccupied at the time. Now, you said _you’d_ tell _us_ everything. Give me the short version.”

“I… poisoned Arl Eamon. For all I know, he’s already dead.”

The young man squared his shoulders, and Solona looked almost like she could cry.

“I’d guessed as much,” she said, sighing. “He’s not dead. Yet.”

“He’s not? Maker, that’s a relief,” Jowan replied. “I know how this looks, but I’m not behind everything else happening here, I swear!”

“Then who _is?_ ” the young man demanded.

“I don’t know! I was already imprisoned when all of that began,” Jowan said.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t --”

“Alistair,” Solona whispered.

The young man -- Alistair, Jowan supposed -- took a step back, seething.

“The first I’d heard about the walking corpses was when Lady Isolde came and demanded I reverse what I’d done. She thought I summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe,” Jowan explained in a panic. “She… had me tortured. There was nothing I could do or say that would appease her. So they… left me to rot.”

A strangled sound escaped Solona. And he saw ice starting to spread out under her feet. Maker, she was _furious._ He’d never seen her this angry.

“Why did you poison the Arl?” Alistair asked.

“I was instructed to by Teyrn Loghain. He said Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I did this, he’d settle matters with the Circle. All I wanted was to be able to return.”

“You didn’t answer Alistair’s question. If you aren’t responsible for all of this, _who is?_ And how did you even get here?” Solona asked.

“Lady Isolde wanted a tutor for her son. Connor had started to show… signs. And she was terrified that he’d be taken away to the Circle.”

“Connor? A _mage?_ I can’t believe it,” Alistair said.

Jowan saw the _hurt_ flash across his friend’s face at her bodyguard’s disbelieving tone. If it weren’t for the bars in the way, and the fact that he’d get clobbered, Jowan might have hit him.

“She wanted someone to teach Connor in secret, away from the Circle, so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea.”

“So, your ‘apprentice’, young, inexperienced, poorly taught --”

“Hey!”

“-- and frightened for his dying father, accidentally catches the attention of a demon, who kills everyone and animates their corpses with lesser demons.”

“Or he did something to open the Veil by mistake. But, yes, basically.”

“It’s plausible,” Solona said, more to Alistair than to him.

“If he’s involved in this at all,” Jowan clarified. “I really don’t know.”

“I think I understand. It’s a better thought than you doing it, anyway. You’re not the mass-murdering type.”

She was trying to lighten the mood, but Jowan didn’t deserve that.

“I’ve messed everything up. My entire life, I’ve made such bad decisions,” Jowan said. “We were friends, once. I know I don’t deserve to call you that, after what I did… if it ever meant anything to you, _please_. Help me fix this.”

Jowan saw the tears shining in her eyes -- saw with every line of her body that she wanted to help -- and saw the stark disapproval on Alistair’s face.

“Jowan, they’ll kill you,” Solona whispered.

“You’ve faced them all right so far --”

“Not the corpses, the _knights_. Lady Isolde is convinced you did all of this, and there’s no way we’ll be able to persuade her and Bann Teagan otherwise. Let alone the Arl himself, once he recovers,” she said, and he could _hear_ the effort she was making to hold herself back from crying. “I believe you, but _they_ won’t. And they’ll kill you, Jowan. Or if by some miracle you do get to go back to the Circle, they’ll make you Tranquil for sure.”

“I have to make this right,” Jowan insisted.

“You have to _live_.”

She took a keyring off one of the nearby corpses, and began trying them, one by one, in the lock on his cell.

“You’re letting him _out?_ ” Alistair asked.

“Yes. I’ll tell you the whole story later. ”

Jowan blinked, staring at her.

“Solona, you don’t have to --”

“I broke this promise last time. Let me keep it now.”

“But -- what about --”

“Alistair and I will take care of things here at Redcliffe,” she said confidently. “You -- ugh, there’s so much to explain, and I don’t have _time_. There are going to be a lot of people who need help, protection, safety from a world gone to the Void around them. Find them. Help them. You can’t fix what’s been done here, but you _can_ make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else. _That’s_ how you make this right.”

She dressed one of the corpses in a spare set of Circle robes as he and Alistair stood there, dumbfounded.

At this, their last goodbye, probably forever, he knew he had to ask. He _had_ to know.

“Solona…” he said, his voice dropping solemnly. “Since you’re with the Grey Wardens now, did you… ever find out what happened to your Voice? How he died?”

Alistair shot her a glance; the anger had vanished and was placed by obvious concern. Solona shook her head.

“Not… exactly? I don’t know how to explain,” she said, her voice breaking. “Keep safe.”

He chuckled, and tears stung his eyes. “I know better than to ask you to do that in return.”

“Probably for the best.”

He nodded and started to walk away, down the way she’d come just a few minutes before.

“And Jowan?”

He turned back to look at Solona. Tears were streaming down her face, and, if he was being honest, down his own as well.

“I hope that we don’t run into each other again.”

He knew that she meant _stay out of trouble,_ _don’t do anything else stupid,_ but it still hurt to hear his once-best-friend say that. Despite everything, he still wanted everything to go back to the way it was before… but that wasn’t possible. And even if he _could_ , it wouldn’t have fixed any of the problems he’d had _then_. Rose-colored glasses weren’t going to fix anything.

The porridge was spoiled, but he still had to eat it, as his mother used to say.

He looked at Alistair -- despite everything, he got the feeling that this was a decent man -- and said, “Take care of her, would you?”

“I -- well. She, ah -- takes care of herself, mostly,” Alistair replied, blushing. “But… sure.”

He liked her? Good. If he was anything like the type Solona _usually_ attracted, he’d make sure Solona came through this all right, whether she liked it or not.

And with that, feeling sadder and yet more hopeful than he had in a long time, Jowan left for good.


	18. Alistair

The last few days had been an absolute whirlwind. Going to Redcliffe, finding out it was under attack, preparing _for_ that attack, surviving, finding out Arl Eamon had been poisoned, running into Solona’s ex-best friend (who had, naturally, poisoned Arl Eamon), and finding out _from_ that best friend that one, Solona had, at one point, a Voice, and two, that Voice had something to do with the Wardens, and three, that he was dead now.

Maker. The Chantry and six months with Duncan had _not_ adequately prepared him for this. He wasn’t certain anything _could_ have.

Solona hadn’t said anything after she let Jowan go. Alistair wasn’t entirely sure he would have done the same thing, but she knew him best. If she trusted that he wouldn’t do any further harm, Alistair had to just accept that.

Still, he couldn’t help but be curious. It wasn’t every day he got to hear about Voices.

The Chantry had only ever said two things about them: they don’t exist, and don’t let your charges talk about them, _ever._ Which was enough for any True Believer, but Alistair hadn’t bought it, not really. Why did it matter if mages spoke about Voices if they didn’t exist, he had asked.

_So that they do not want what they cannot have,_ was the stern-faced reply.

And that was all Alistair had needed to know that the Chantry was full of it. That was too carefully phrased.

He wasn’t entirely certain what a Voice _was,_ exactly. The rumors among the less-devout initiates were… entirely unclear. Some said that a Voice was supposed to be the sworn protector of a mage, keeping them safe from harm within the Fade and without. Others said it was a true love fantasy, straight out of a fairy tale. Some of the more well-read recruits spoke in hushed whispers about the Tevinter _unum vinctum_ , a blood slave, bound to a mage for eternity.

Alistair _wanted_ to ask… but if her Voice had _died,_ and it was significant enough for her ex-best friend to ask about _just before_ they’d never see each other again… would it be poking at a wound? But then, if her Voice had something to do with the Wardens, maybe Alistair could help. Maybe he _knew_ her Voice and could give her some peace of mind.

Maker. It brought back memories of the night after they’d left Ostagar, when she’d given him the space to grieve for Duncan. She’d felt a pain that rhymed, she said. Now he knew what she meant.

Unfortunately, in a castle full of walking corpses and at least one confirmed demon, he couldn’t make that space for her. He wanted to, but… this was neither the time nor the place.

He led the way through the dungeons; he could have walked this castle in his sleep. The two of them were completely silent as they fought corpse after corpse. Alistair wondered what she was thinking. Was she focused on the task at hand, or was she going through the motions of battle and healing, thinking about her friend and all he’d said?

“Wait,” she whispered. “I hear something.”

Some muffled sobbing was coming out of a nearby storeroom.

“Hello? Is someone there?” she called, but quietly. “We’re not corpses, I promise. We’re here to help.”

The door opened, and a young woman with light hair peeked out. She was disheveled and dirty, as if she’d been through the Void itself.

_Well, she_ has _been, hasn’t she?_ Alistair thought.

“Please don’t hurt me,” the young woman said.

“We’re not going to hurt you. Like I said, we’re here to help.” Solona smiled warmly at the young woman, who relaxed a bit.

“My… my name’s Valena, the arlessa’s maid. Is she… all right? What happened to everyone?”

“Valena? I met your father,” Solona said. At Valena’s frightened look, Solona took both of her hands, squeezing tight just once. “He’s all right, and so is the arlessa. We saw them both just this morning.”

“I want to go back to the village. Is there a way out of here?”

“There’s a secret tunnel through the dungeons. It will take you to the windmill near the village.”

“B-but the monsters!”

“We’ve taken care of all of the monsters between here and there, I promise. If you’d rather wait here, we can come back to escort you, but it might be a while.”

“No -- I’ll find my way. I can run fast and I know the castle. Thank you!” she said, racing off.

That was just Solona all over, wasn’t it? She would do anything to help someone in need, no matter what it took. She’d find a way to fix all of this, of that Alistair was certain. She was incredible -- not even so much for her magic, but for her kindness. That was more than he’d ever expected of the new Grey Warden recruit, back at Ostagar. It seemed so long ago now.

He must have been staring without realizing it, because when Solona’s eyes met his, she blushed _furiously_ and looked away, clearing her throat.

“We, um. We should probably go,” she said.

“Right. Right, of course.”

Alistair led the way down to the cellar and up to the courtyard. If they could get inside the main building of the castle, they would find Bann Teagan and the others for sure.

The demons had come to that same conclusion.

A figure, armed like a warrior but made of what looked like dark mist, stood just in front of the stairs.

_A revenant._

This was going to be bad.

The Chantry had mentioned revenants in his Templar training. They were powerful demons, usually desire or pride, that possessed a corpse. Usually, powerful demons like that preferred a living host, so revenants were rare… but _deadly._ They were known to take down entire _units_ of Templars.

And Solona and Alistair were facing one _alone_.

He grabbed Solona by the arm, forcing her behind him. The enemy hadn’t seen them yet, so they had an advantage there.

“What --” she started.

“It’s a revenant,” he hissed.

“It’s worse than that,” she replied. “It’s _also_ a courtyard full of corpse archers.”

Oh _shit._ He hadn’t even _noticed_ them, he’d been so focused on the demon. But there they were, surrounding the courtyard, defending where the Arl himself would have put archers if the castle was ever attacked. Redcliffe Castle was a fortress. _How_ were they ever going to get inside _alone?_

He… didn’t know how to face this. The two of them were a good team, sure, but they would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

“We have to run. _You_ have to get out of here, if nothing else. I can --”

“No,” she said flatly. “We’re in this together.”

“If this is as bad as it looks -- and it’s actually _worse_ than it looks -- one of us needs to make it to the Archdemon.”

“We are _both_ going to face the Archdemon, Alistair. _Together._ ”

“Not if --”

“Does that lever raise the portcullis?” she asked, pointing.

“I -- yes, it does. We make it over there, and you can get out.”

“ _Or_ we can take the fight with the revenant out of range of the archers.”

“ _Or_ we could -- be quiet for a minute and let me be embarrassed for not thinking of that.”

She laughed lightly, squeezing his shoulder.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Always,” he said.

The two of them moved together as one. Solona kept between Alistair and the outer wall, and Alistair kept his shield between the two of them and the archers, who started firing before they were halfway through the courtyard.

“All right there, Alistair?” she whispered, as the arrows helplessly bounced off his shield.

He nodded -- and they were at the lever. He pulled it down as hard as he possibly could, and the portcullis raised.

“My lady! Can we be of any assistance?”

“Ser Perth!” she called -- and then she was _gone._

“Solona!” Alistair shouted.

The revenant could _pull_ its enemies to close range. _Damn it,_ Alistair thought. _I should have remembered that._

Ser Perth and his knights went charging valiantly to Solona’s rescue; they were going to get themselves slaughtered. Alistair saw Solona fighting with everything she had, but she was never going to overcome its resistance to magic.

She started beating it with her staff, and, for an amateur, she wasn’t doing too badly. Her grip was fine, but she was pulling all her strength from her neck, which made her stance more easily breakable. Not to mention that breaking a magical staff was _bad._ Like, explosion-bad.

Alistair strode forward, trying to make himself look like the biggest threat here. He pulled his shoulders back, projecting as much ease and confidence as he could. The archers began to turn their arrows back toward him.

“Hey!” he called to the revenant. “That armor makes your stomach look fat!”

Not his best taunt ever, to be sure, but it would be a wound to the demon’s pride. And it served his purpose: the demon turned its attention to _him,_ and Solona slammed her staff on the back of its head, knocking a concave section into the demon’s helmet.

While it was dazed, Alistair raced to help Solona, giving the revenant every bit of strength he had. Solona ran back to the middle of the courtyard before he could stop her -- taking several arrows to her right side.

He wasn’t looking, but he could feel her force her mana forward, pushing with everything _she_ had -- and the skeleton archers all fell down. That was enough to kill some.

“Ser Perth?” she asked.

She didn’t have to say more than that; the knights rushed up the stairs to mop up the remaining archers. And from the cold bursts Alistair was feeling race past him, she was using her staff to help him with the revenant. He was almost overwhelmed -- the last time she’d forced all her mana out like that, she’d been taken out of the battle for several minutes. _This_ time, she was pushing herself to go on, despite everything.

He _had_ to get this revenant down, _now._

He bashed the revenant with his shield, over and over again, until the demon lost its footing. One quick stab to the throat, and it was dead. Or, well, _gone_ , anyway. It still lived in the Fade. Probably.

Alistair ran back over to Solona, who was leaning heavily on her staff. She was barely upright, one knee on the ground, and breathing hard -- but smiling slightly, even considering her exhaustion and the arrows stuck in her.

“Maybe you should do that trick a little less,” he said quietly.

“It _works,_ doesn’t it?” She was smiling at him.

“That's... one way to put it, sure.”

She laughed quietly, then clutched her side in pain.

Ser Perth and the others had finished their work, and they came back down the stairs.

“We _must_ remove those arrows before we proceed,” Ser Perth announced.

There were only three in total -- which was fewer than anyone should have expected, given that the courtyard had been _full_ of archers -- one in her right shoulder, her right upper arm, and her right side (though that one was not in very far).

“No,” Solona said. “If you remove the shaft of the arrow, there’s a chance the arrowhead might get stuck, which would cause more damage.”

“We can’t _leave_ you like this, my lady.”

She gave Ser Perth a pained smile.

“Is there a doctor in the village?” she asked.

“Of course. Our surgeon is excellent.”

“Would you mind alerting him -- or her -- to the problem here? Once we’re done with all of this, I can return to the village, and we can remove these arrows properly.”

“Can you heal yourself in the meantime?” Alistair asked. How long was this going to take? He didn’t know. Neither did she. She could be hurting for a long time before they were able to go back.

“If I heal it, the skin will close around the arrowheads. The surgeon will have to cut the wounds back open.”

“So... not ideal, then.”

Solona chuckled, then winced.

“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

Ser Perth and his two knights strode gallantly off to locate the doctor, and Alistair and Solona turned their attention to the staircase. He put an arm around her waist to help keep her steady for the long walk ahead.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low.

Today had been an awful day for everyone involved -- but for her more than most. Her friend had been involved in all of this -- and she’d let him go, but still, to know a friend of yours poisoned an Arl couldn’t be an easy realization. She hadn’t even had a chance to rest since yesterday. (Neither had he, but that mattered less to him right now.)

He noticed that a long black lock of hair had escaped her braid and was hanging in her face in a way that had to be annoying. Without thinking, he tucked it behind her ear for her. She leaned forward, kissing him on the cheek. 

Alistair's breath caught. She lingered there for a moment; he could feel her breath -- and her heartbeat. It was  _racing_.  So was his, probably. He… really should start thinking about what to say in advance. Because she was probably expecting him to say something and he had no thoughts to even organize, let alone _words_ \-- and then she cupped his cheek with her good hand. His eyes slipped closed for just a moment, almost like a reflex. 

“You’re sweet to worry,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“Well -- then -- good,” Alistair replied. “I’d hate to think you’d been shot three times or anything. That would just be _awful._ ”

She chuckled again.

“ _Damn_ it,” she hissed, still half-laughing, but pulling as far back as she could without falling over. “When will I ever learn?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem for much longer,” Alistair said, trying to comfort her.

Solona stared at him for a moment. He didn’t know what she was thinking; her face had gone impenetrably stoic.

“I hope so,” she said.

And with that, they turned toward the castle, taking the steps one at a time.   


	19. Teagan

_Teagan strides boldly through the castle gates. His brother’s castle now, but he grew up here, was made into the man he is today here. He knows every stone of these walls, every blade of grass surrounding them. He knows how the castle will look when the snow comes in a few months, and what flowers will bloom when it thaws. Had he the skill, he could paint it from memory, in each and every season, with every tiny detail._

_This is his home._

_And yet,_ this _time, the castle unnerves Teagan. There is_ no one, _save him and Isolde, that he can see. No one patrols the walls. No noise comes from the castle, either, not the barking of the Mabari in the kennels, or the shouts of servants calling to one another, or even the sound of birds in the trees._

_His castle was alive with life. This is not that castle._

_Everyone is gone._

_And then, as Isolde leads him into the main courtyard, he sees what has become of them. Instead of a courtyard filled with the noise and bustle of life -- a sort of human friendliness of being -- he finds a skeleton army and a demon made of mist._

_This is not his home anymore._

_He is not a religious man, not by any means, but he finds himself starting to pray -- or perhaps_ hope _is the better word._

_He hopes Alistair and his friend come through all right. He hopes they have the sense to bring their other friends with them. He hopes they don’t come through the courtyard, perhaps finding another way inside. He hopes they can find a way to end all of this without getting themselves hurt. He hopes they see the threat before he did._

_As he enters what used to be his castle, he sees that the soldiers who would once have stood guard are now skeletons. They make a horrible gargling noise when they see him, but they do not do anything else. Perhaps it’s because he is with Isolde? Teagan isn’t sure._

_The chill in the great room is palpable; Teagan could see his own breath with each frightened exhale. But the air feels… stale. Stifled. As if the castle had been locked up for a long time, and no one had been inside. Yet here he is, standing here with Isolde and… a small boy with darkened eyes._

_If Teagan is shocked by what changes have happened to the castle, they do not prepare him for what has become of Connor. Teagan notices how Connor’s eyes sparkle with a cruel delight beyond a child Connor’s age. Its carefree pose, adult-like and unnatural for such a young boy, says everything._

_This is not his nephew anymore. This is a demon._

_Solona was, sadly, right._

_He’d hoped to be able to persuade the_ real _Connor to leave the castle, perhaps finding a way to cure Eamon once they were free… but Connor’s demon is the cause of all of this, and that makes things… complicated._

_Still, his job is to be a distraction. And so he treats demon-Connor like he would boy-Connor. He attempts to reason with him, providing excellent reasons for them to go, pretending not to notice his nephew’s formerly bright eyes now sunken and dark, pretending he doesn’t see how thin Connor’s already small body has become -- as if the child inside is wasting away… or perhaps, already dead. He pretends, to save Isolde and Eamon and what may be left of Connor, even as the last few threads of his hope begin to snap._

_The demon does not reply._

_He keeps his voice steady as he speaks of Eamon, and of Connor’s care for him._

Your father would want you safe, _he says. And it’s true, Eamon loves nothing in the world so well as his own son. He once swore he’d atone for his failures with Alistair by lavishing love and attention on Connor, and he kept that vow, as far as Teagan could tell._

_The demon does not reply._

_And so Teagan tells Connor to leave, to go to the village with his mother, and to let Teagan and the healers take care of Eamon. He suggests even that he would go to the Circle for better healers, and he would, unquestioningly, but he doesn’t mean it in this moment, and the demon can tell._

_The demon does not reply._

_But as he promises to find a cure for the poison, the demon that was once Connor scoffs._

_“I find this tiresome,” he says, his voice rumbling with an unnatural timbre._

_And then everything goes… fuzzy. Teagan is dimly aware of what is happening, as if he’s observing it from outside himself -- or to be more accurate, as if he’s viewing what is happening from underwater. He can only make out blurry outlines of what has happened, and he cannot recall what his voice is made to say._

_He looks, but cannot see. He hears, but cannot listen._

_He notices when two more figures enter the room. After a few moments, he feels a deep-down thought, almost from where his emotions begin: they are_ intruders, _here to ruin_ everything.

_And this castle is his home. He defends it._

 

* * *

 

 

“Teagan! Teagan, Are you all right?” Isolde’s voice was the first to return to him, and he’d never been so happy to hear it.

He blinked, and he could see again -- clearly, thank the Maker. Isolde and Alistair were hovering nearby, looking concerned, while Solona was already examining him for injury.

“I am… better now, I think. My mind is my own again,” he said, testing his ability to move his arm and hand. He appeared to be in working order.

Solona and Alistair both let out sighs of relief.

“Blessed Andraste! I would never have forgiven myself if you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!”

“What are we going to do _next?_ Connor is possessed by a demon, and we can’t let it run amok in Redcliffe any longer,” Alistair said.

“Please! Connor’s not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him.”

“He’s… he’s an abomination.” Alistair’s voice was hesitant and soft, as if he regretted the words as he was saying them.

“He’s not always the demon you saw. Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please… I just want to protect him.”

“Isn’t that what _started_ this? You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret… to ‘protect’ him.” Teagan was surprised at his own anger. But this _was_ demonstrably Isolde’s fault. Giving up a child to the Circle would be difficult, of course, and he didn’t mean to minimize that. But it was the right thing to do, and none of this would have happened if she had just _done_ it. People in the village and the castle had _died_ because of her inability to let Connor go. And Eamon might join them yet.

“If they discovered Connor had magic, then they’d take him away! I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then --”

“With respect, that’s now how it works --” Alistair cut in.

“I didn’t _know_ that --”

“So you just let anyone come in here and teach him? And _now_ he’s an abomination!” Teagan said, angry.

“So what am I to do? Let someone just… _kill_ _my son_?”

“I wouldn’t normally suggest it, but… he _is_ an abomination. I’m not sure we have any choice.”

“Connor is my nephew. But he’s also possessed by a demon. Killing him might be… kinder.”

It killed him to say it. He forced himself not to look at Isolde, but he could _hear_ her heart breaking as her last hopes fluttered away.

“No -- no. There _has_ to be another way! Please, there must be _something_ we can do!”

“Enough!” Solona called out. The three of them turned their attention to the kindhearted mage, who was angrily rubbing at her eyes.

“Warden?” Isolde called gently.

“I’m sorry, I’m just -- I’m trying to remember,” Solona said, sounding frustrated. “I read a book on spirits and demons last year. The author’s name was DuFourier or something like that, the cover was reddish-brown, and there was a whole _chapter_ devoted to possession -- what did it _say?”_

They all paused for a moment, as if by tacit agreement, to let her think.

“An abomination is a symbiotic relationship. The demon looks through the world with the eyes of the mage, channeling its power through the mage’s body, and the mage is able to cast at a level of spellpower unreachable by other means, blah blah blah… ‘However, the possession is not physical -- _the demon’s true essence remains in the Fade, as does the soul of the mage himself --’_ ” Solona stopped, her voice dropped to a whisper. “We can save him.”

“What?” Alistair asked.

“We can save him. We need to go into the Fade, and destroy the demon _there,_ and then Connor’s soul can return to his body, free of any demonic influence.” She turned to Alistair, eyes shining. “ _We can save him.”_

Isolde and Solona both looked like they were going to burst into tears. Teagan was feeling a little misty himself. This _was_ his only remaining nephew.

“Going into the Fade takes a lot of lyrium. And _multiple_ mages. You and Morrigan can’t do it alone,” Alistair said, his tone gentle -- perhaps not wanting to squash the idea too thoroughly.

“I don’t intend to,” she replied. “We have to go to the Circle _anyway,_ for the treaty, so _why not_ kill two birds with one stone, as it were? Irving will help, I’m sure of it, and Greagoir will protest, of course, but it’s in his best interest not to let anyone else die from a demon -- it’s his job, after all -- so we get the first piece of our army, and Connor and Redcliffe are both safe. What do you think?”

“I… well. The Tower isn’t _that_ far. It’s, what, a day from here?”

“But what will happen here? Connor will not remain passive forever,” Isolde said.

“I don’t think he’ll cause any further harm,” Solona replied. “He’s out of troops, for one thing. And he’s shown an unwillingness to hurt anyone in his family, so he’s not exactly in a great position to make more to attack the village with.”

Teagan had to concede that Solona had a point.

“It’s a risk,” Alistair said, “but… I would rather try this first.”

Solona positively beamed at him, warming Teagan’s heart for a minute. He hid it, however; now was not the time.

She took an unsteady step forward -- and stumbled. Alistair reached for her elbow, steadying her without so much as a word. The two of them were close enough, that much was obvious. Teagan believed Alistair that nothing had happened between them -- but he was fairly confident that something _would._ (Eamon would disapprove, of course, but Teagan couldn’t help but feel anything but glad for his near-nephew. He wanted Alistair to be happy.)

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked, almost too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“I’ll be fine until we get back,” she whispered back.

And it was only now that Teagan noticed the three arrows embedded in Solona’s skin.

“Maker’s breath!” he swore, angry at his own obliviousness. She must think them so ungrateful, after everything she’d done, and everything she was still _willing_ to do. “You’re _wounded._ ”

“Ser Perth alerted the surgeon in the village,” Solona replied, with a thin smile. “I can manage until we get back.”

Were things different, he would have summoned the surgeon _here_ . But Solona was right: the demon was only sparing Connor’s _family._ Anyone else would be in immediate danger -- _she herself_ was in danger. (Teagan was unsure about whether Alistair counted as family to the demon, but it was clear enough that he would do whatever it took to defend his friend.)

“Go to the Tower quickly then,” he said. “The longer you are away, the greater the chances of disaster.”

“I promised you we’d all come out of this,” Solona whispered to him. “I aim to keep it.”

“Thank you, Grey Warden,” Isolde said. She grasped Solona’s hands, her eyes overflowing with tears.

Solona stiffened and pulled away. Her face hardened into something like an Orlesian mask, stoic and impassive, as she said, “ _I_ don’t have it in me to be cruel to a child, my lady.”

Teagan might have imagined it, but he could have sworn there was a slight emphasis on the word “I”. Alistair must have heard it too, because he stared at his companion, eyebrows raised. Isolde certainly took it as an insult, dropping Solona’s hands unceremoniously and recoiling.

And with one last nod from Solona to Teagan, she and a bemused Alistair left.

Isolde instantly began complaining about the impertinence, but Teagan couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Yes, Solona was rude to his sister-in-law, but it was clearly out of care for Alistair. Everything she was doing, saving Connor included, seemed to be for his benefit, even if the young man himself couldn’t yet see it.

Teagan could live with that.


	20. Solona

Coming back to Lake Calenhad was an _experience._ And having Leliana, Alistair, and Barkspawn in tow just made it awkward. Solona wasn’t certain how she’d feel, seeing the Circle Tower again -- much less going _inside._ Would it be bittersweet? Nostalgic? Painful? Would the reunion with Irving make her want to go back? She didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure if she _missed_ being in the Circle or not, and hadn’t she been gone long enough to sort this all out?

And so, involuntarily, as soon as the Circle Tower started to peek into view, Solona stopped.

_I thought I would never come back here._

“It must be strange,” Leliana remarked from beside her, “to see it again, after all this time.”

“It… it is, yeah,” Solona said. “It’s just… I didn’t have many bad memories of the Tower, not really. It’s the closest thing to a home I’ve had since they took me away from my father. I grew up there. If you’d asked me six months ago, I’d have said I didn’t want to leave, ever.”

“But things are different _now.”_

Solona took the whole Tower in, from the lake at the bottom to the spire at the top, its shape so familiar and yet so alien to her from this distance.

“Very much so.”

“Do you… remember your family at all?” Alistair asked.

Solona nearly jumped out of her skin. She wasn’t aware he’d been _listening._

“I do. A bit. I remember my father, and my brothers -- to varying degrees. I don’t remember my mother at all,” Solona said. “Da said she just… left one day. And he waited for her, for _ages_ , but… she never came back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alistair said, immediately looking contrite.

“It’s all right. I mean, it’s -- it really isn’t, but _you_ didn’t do anything wrong.” Solona tried to shoot him a smile, but it came out as a pained grimace.

The four of them began the slow walk down the hill that she’d run up just a short time before. With Duncan.

And with _that_ thought giving her a cold stab to the heart, she led the way to the small dock where they’d find the boat to take them across Lake Calenhad.

… But this time the boatman was a Templar? _What in the Maker’s name…_

“You! You’re not looking to get across to the Tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let _anyone_ pass,” the Templar shouted.

“...Carroll? What are you doing out here? Where’s the boatman?” Solona asked.

“Oh -- _oh_ . It’s _you._ Well, I don’t know where the boatman is, exactly. But Greagoir told me to guard the dock, and that’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “Shame, really. Cullen would have been glad to see you.”

Solona blushed, and Carroll snorted.

“Look, Carroll, we really _do_ have urgent business at the Tower,” Solona said in her most persuasive tone. “Look, it’s a Grey Warden matter --”

She gestured for Alistair to show him the treaties. He did, though they were slightly more crumpled than the last time the Wardens had needed to look at them.

“Ah-ha, I see. You know, I have some documents, too. They say I’m the Queen of Antiva. What do you think of that?”

“... aren’t queens usually female?”

“Don’t question royalty!” he snapped.

Solona smiled in spite of herself. Carroll was an odd one, but generally well-liked for a reason.

“Well, it was nice chatting with you. Now on your way. Right now. Go.”

Solona extended a hand for a hearty shake. Carroll looked bewildered, but he took it just the same.

“I applaud you, my friend. Your strict adherence to your duty, even when it’s urgent news Greagoir himself needs to hear -- and he’d be well within his rights to be _truly_ angry when he hears about it later, now that I come to think of it,” Solona said. “But I’m sure he’ll overlook that when it comes time for his next review of your performance. Right?”

“You think Greagoir would be angry with me for not letting you in?” Carroll said, first scoffing -- then thoughtfully. “Actually, he would. Good point.”

“Well, we mustn’t have _that,_ ” she said. “You’d better take us across and let Greagoir deal with us himself.”

“I -- what -- ugh, fine. Come along, I suppose,” Carroll replied with an exasperated sigh.

Alistair caught Solona’s eye as they loaded into the small boat. His expression could only be described as one of confused awe. Solona tipped him a small wink.

In truth, though, she was glad he couldn’t hear the hammering of her heartbeat right now. Her hands were practically shaking. Something was _wrong_ here.

She remembered the trip across with Duncan: the lovely fall day, the gentle breeze, the overwhelming, beautiful _newness_ of it all -- _this_ was nothing like that. The air felt oppressive, even stifled -- and they were still outside. And her magic was tingling in a way that put her on edge. Not a pleasant tingle, but a creeping, electric feeling running from the back of her neck to her fingertips. She couldn’t tell if it was the fear of going back to where she’d been -- or something far more sinister.

Waving a short farewell to Carroll, the team entered the huge metal doors that Solona had been all but too happy to let close behind her.

“And I want two men stationed in sight of the doors at all times. No one is to open those doors without my express consent, is that clear?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.”

Greagoir was in the rotunda? Odd. Rotunda duty was usually a safe station, a reward for well-behaved Templars unless they’d heard of an escape attempt.

“The doors are barred,” Alistair whispered to her. “Are they keeping people _out…_ or _in?”_

This increased security couldn’t still be because of _Jowan_ , could it? There was nothing anyone could do about that, unless he was found, and it’s not like anyone was still around who knew the details of the escape attempt except Greagoir and Irving themselves.

“Now we wait, and pray,” Greagoir said.

“Knight-Commander?” Solona asked, forgetting for a moment that she was a Grey Warden and had to show a bolder, more assertive side.

“Well, look who’s back. A proper Grey Warden now, are we? Glad you’re not dead,” he said, gruff as ever… but Solona thought maybe he meant it.

“Something’s obviously happened here. Why are the doors barred?”

“I shall speak plainly: the tower is no longer under our control.”

“... what?” Solona asked. Greagoir’s words were strangling her; she couldn’t breathe.

“Abominations and demons stalk the Tower’s halls. We were too complacent. First Jowan, now this. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your role in Jowan’s escape.”

Solona wasn’t listening. She was scanning the room, desperately searching. There were maybe a half-dozen Templars in the room, total -- and Cullen was not among them.

“Greagoir, is this _everyone?_ ”

He softened at her small, heartbroken voice -- but only for an instant. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to say it, but she read it in his clenched fists and furrowed brow. Tears stung her eyes, but she angrily wiped them away.

“No,” Solona said. “No! Someone _has_ to have survived this.”

“Amell --”

“ _No._ I _refuse_ to accept it. _Irving_ \--”

“ _Is not here, Apprentice.”_

“ _Grey Warden,”_ she spat. “And _we_ do not answer to the Templars, _Knight-Commander.”_

Greagoir sighed, running a hand through his hair. His usual composure had clearly cracked under the strain of this crisis.

“It’s too late,” he said. “I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment.”

“The mages are probably already dead. Any remaining abominations must be dealt with, no matter what,” Alistair piped up from behind her.

“ _Whose side are you on?”_ Solona hissed at him, fury rising.

“Your companion is correct. This situation is dire. There is no alternative -- everything in the tower must be destroyed so it can be made safe again,” Greagoir said, letting his stoic mask slip. “ _No one_ could have survived those monstrous creatures. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find… nothing.”

“I’ll go.”

“What?”

“ _Let me go in._ I’ll look for survivors, I’ll -- I’ll make sure no abominations get out, just -- _please,_ Greagoir.”

“I assure you, an abomination is a force to be reckoned with, and you will face more than one.”

 _“I don’t care.”_ Her voice broke as she said it, but she meant it more than she’d ever meant anything.

Greagoir stopped -- _looking_ at her for perhaps the first time ever.

“If you succeed, I would owe you much,” he said slowly. “Enough that I would pledge my Templars to your cause.”

He… was going to let her in?

“Without word from Denerim, I must determine our course. Surely destroying darkspawn is a worthy goal.”

_He was going to let her in._

Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing as tightly as she could. He stiffened -- then wrapped one arm around her waist. Tears were _running_ down her face. They broke apart, standing there awkwardly for a minute. Greagoir cleared his throat, and the other Templars in the room discreetly looked away.

“A word of caution,” he said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse, “once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof that it is safe.”

“What proof do you need?” Solona asked with an undignified sniff.

“I will only believe it is safe if the First Enchanter stands before me and tells me it is so,” he replied, his own eyes misty. “If Irving has -- fallen, then the Circle is lost and must be destroyed. May Andraste lend you her courage… whatever you decide.”

Solona immediately started to walk to the great doors, and Alistair caught her arm. She turned to face him, annoyed.

“Solona -- are you _sure_ you want to do this?”

“I’m sure it’s the only way to save Connor, as well as my mentor and my friends. I’m sure it’s _the right thing to do_ . And I’m _damn_ sure it’s what I’m _going_ to do.”

“No, it’s just -- shutting the door and throwing away the key was definitely the Templar ‘Plan B’. And you were hurt at Redcliffe…”

“I’m going in. Whether _any_ of you accompany me or not is your own choice.”

She jerked her arm free and marched to the doors. She was surprised to hear all three of them follow. On another day, she would have been touched by that. But not today.

The Templar standing in front of the doors looked back at Greagoir for confirmation. He must have received it -- Solona didn’t look -- but he opened the doors just the same. The _clang_ as they shut behind the team echoed through the now-empty halls.

She could hardly believe she used hear the quiet rumble of hundreds of voices, the occasional explosion coming from the library, apprentices calling to each other, the clank of Templar armor -- she’d always thought the Circle was fairly quiet, but this silence was _unearthly._ She couldn’t recognize this as the same hall she’d walked in every day for a decade.

Spattered across every stone of the hall was blood -- black and brown and red. This was the hall with the _apprentice_ quarters. This was where the _children_ slept. Where _Solona herself_ had slept.

The room swung wildly around her. She thought she might be sick.

“Are you all right?” Leliana asked quietly, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Solona took a deep breath.

“We need to keep going,” she said.

 _Screams_ suddenly echoed through the hall, and Solona broke into a dead run, with Barkspawn just beside her. She ignored the startled remarks of her two human companions.

They were _children’s_ screams.

Her fingers fumbled at the latch on the door, but after an agonizing moment, she opened it. The room had five or six children, a few older apprentices she recognized, and one senior mage who looked… oddly familiar -- and she was dispatching a rage demon.

“Solona!” one of the children called, as the older apprentices cried, “Amell!”

The child who’d called ran up to her, hugging her around the legs. It was one of Irving’s younger apprentices, a little elven girl named Neria. Solona saw Petra, Kinnon, and Keili as well, and she gave them all a broken-hearted smile.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Solona said, affectionately ruffling Neria’s hair.

“They said you’re a Grey Warden now, but…”

“I am,” Solona replied, taking a knee in front of her little friend. “And I’m here to fix things, okay? Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

“I’m sorry your homecoming has been… marred by all of this,” Kinnon said. “It’s good to see you back, and we’re glad you survived Ostagar.”

Solona was too overcome to do more than nod at him in return. _Survivors. That_ wasn’t _everyone. You see, Greagoir?_ This was one “I-told-you-so” she couldn’t _wait_ to give.

“You’ve returned to the tower? Why did the Templars let you through? Are you here to warn us?” the older mage asked.  
“They… asked me to come look for survivors,” Solona replied, with a short but significant look at the children. She hoped the mage picked up on her message: _I’m not telling these kids they’re all about to die if I fail, thanks._

“The Templars have barred the doors. They will only open them if they intend to attack us. Is that what is happening?”

Solona shot the woman an irritated look.

“No,” she said, then sighed. “Not yet. I am really here to look for survivors. And Greagoir will only open the doors for Irving. So I came in to look for him.”

“So Greagoir believes the Circle is beyond hope. He probably assumes we are all dead,” she said. “They abandoned us to our fate, but even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Right of Annulment, however, we will not be able to stand against them.”

“If anyone could have survived this…” Solona insisted.

“It’s Irving. It was he who told me to look after the children. It’s… a long story.”

Solona swallowed her questions. The more time they wasted here, the less likely it would be they’d find Irving, or Cullen… or _anyone._

“I erected a barrier over the door leading to the rest of the tower, so nothing from inside could attack the children. You will not be able to enter the tower so long as the barrier holds,” the older woman said, “but I will dispel it if you will join with me to save this Circle.”

“That’s what I came in here to do,” Solona replied. “But will the children be safe here?”

“Petra and Kinnon will watch them. If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten the children.”

Solona looked down at Barkspawn, who was standing at attention, like a soldier.

“Barkspawn, you can help. Listen to Petra and Kinnon, and guard everyone in this room. Don’t let _anyone_ come in unless they say they’ve seen me, all right?”

“You have a _Mabari?_ ” Neria gasped.

“His name is _Barkspawn?”_ Kinnon said with a snort.

The dog whimpered, as if to say _take me with you._ Solona rubbed his ears with forceful affection, and dropped a small kiss on the top of his head.

“You’re a good boy. I’ll get you some bacon when we leave.”

“Petra, Kinnon, look after the others. I will be back soon,” the older mage said.

“Wynne… are you sure you’re all right? You were so badly hurt earlier. Maybe I should come along,” Petra said.

 _Wynne_ . That was her name. Solona had known her in the Circle by reputation, but not by sight. (And if Wynne had mentioned her name at Ostagar, Solona didn’t remember it.) She was the best spirit healer Ferelden’s Circle had seen in decades. Anders had tried to switch mentors so that she would be his teacher, but his _actual_ mentor denied the request. That she’d been badly hurt and was now standing and fighting off rage demons was incredible.

“The others need your protection more. I will be all right. Stay here with them. Keep them safe and calm.”

“It will be all right, Petra,” Solona said, trying for a reassuring smile. “We will not fail.”

“Your confidence is refreshing, though you should make sure it does not blind you to your weaknesses,” Wynne replied.

If this hadn’t been a crisis, Solona would have started taking notes. The four of them walked toward the barrier, which Wynne easily dispelled.

“And Solona?” Neria called.

Solona turned, watching her favorite little apprentice hug Barkspawn.

“Good luck.”

Solona winked at her with more confidence than she felt, her stomach sinking as she realized what had become of the place she called home.


	21. Alistair

The first thing Alistair was aware of was the smell of something cooking. The second was that he was lying down on a bed more comfortable than he’d had since he left Arl Eamon’s castle. The third was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, when he  _ always _ slept in one.

The fourth was that he wasn’t  _ alone _ . He heard soft breathing and a light snore from next to him. Finally opening his eyes, he saw… Solona. His heart felt like it was going to lurch right out of his chest. She was so -- peaceful. For some reason, he felt like he hadn’t seen that soft, almost contented look on her in… a long time. Maybe… ever.

It was a little fuzzy as to how they got here. Had he been drinking last night?

There was a loud rap at the door.

“Are you two  _ still  _ abed? We’ve got visitors coming, and I need you up and dressed to greet them!” a woman’s voice called. She had a thick Fereldan accent, and she was heard walking heavily away.

_ Goldanna, _ he thought. He… were they living with Goldanna? How much  _did_ he have to drink?

Alistair looked back over at Solona. He… should wake her, right? They couldn’t miss… whoever was worth waking them up for.

“Solona?” he called softly. “It’s, ah… time to get up?”

She rolled away from him, onto her other side with a grumpy sigh. Alistair laughed.

“Come on, we’re going to be late. Or something,” he said.

She was muttering to herself; he couldn’t hear it, but she was probably swearing. Solona stretched out her back, like a cat, slowly bringing herself back toward him. Her bright blue eyes blinked open at him and… And…

She was lying practically underneath him, a small smile playing at her lips, her gaze locked onto his. She was wearing one of  _ his _ nightshirts -- which, he supposed, explained where it had gone. His heart was beating hummingbird-fast, and a slow, heated realization hit several parts of him at the same time:  _ they’d been sharing a bed. How long had they been sharing a bed?  _ And --  _ had they shared anything _ else? But how could he  _ ask _ that? How could he  _ not remember? _

“You’re lucky I like you,” she said.

“I know.”

Well… they  _ were _ sharing a bed… 

Alistair laid down beside her, propping himself up on one arm. He reached out and stroked her hair, enjoying how her eyes slipped closed -- again, like a cat.  She grabbed his hand and brought it to her lips in a gentle but deliberate kiss. Alistair let out a breath -- and saw the triumphant, teasing smile spreading across her face.

And he would be  _ damned _ if he let her win.

He leaned in, as close as he could without touching. He heard her breath hitch, and he smiled himself. 

“Something amusing, Miss Amell?” he asked, his voice dropping in a flirtatious way. He hoped.

“No,” she said, “I’m just happy.”

And that --  _ that  _ \-- did it. Alistair closed the small distance between them with a broken noise. His mouth slanted over hers, and he  _ had no idea what he was doing _ , but the small whimpering noise Solona made against his lips were nothing if not encouraging.

She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him as close as they could be -- and Alistair shuddered when he felt the warmth of her --  _ everything was touching _ and she was  _ so soft _ . She swiped her tongue against his mouth, and his lips parted, and  _ Maker _ ,  _ he had never felt anything like this. _ He actually  _ moaned _ at the slick glide of their tongues together, and he started to pull away, embarrassed -- when she curled her body up into his, a clear invitation.

And -- he was enjoying this, but it was getting out of hand. Being here, with  _ this _ woman, was more than anything he’d ever dreamed of. If this continued, they’d be -- well. He… didn’t think he was ready for that yet. So… maybe they  _ hadn’t _ been sharing a bed for long. Or maybe it hadn’t meant what he thought it did.

Alistair broke the kiss, practically panting. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes shut tight. How did an idiot like him tell a woman like her that he wasn’t ready to… go all the way? Especially after  _ that? _

“Alistair,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes to look at her, and he saw -- her eyes wide, darkened -- her lips wet, a darker pink from kissing -- and he  _ wanted _ her, he  _ wanted _ this, but… it was… not now. Not yet.

“It’s all right,” she said, caressing his cheek. “No pressure.”

“No pressure,” he repeated nonsensically.

She was  _ perfect. _ She was  _ everything. _ She was… sitting up suddenly, staring off into the distance, her brow furrowed.

“Is -- is everything all right?”

She shot him a bright, false smile.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He’d let her keep her secrets before, but this… this one felt important. Vital, somehow.

“You look… upset.”

Solona opened her mouth to say something else -- then another rap came from the door.

“Are you two up  _ yet?” _

“Yes, Goldanna, thank you,” Alistair replied.

“Good. Solona, feel free to hit him if he tries anything inappropriate.”

“Hey!”

Alistair heard Goldanna laugh as she walked away again. Solona rose abruptly from the bed, and -- was she  _ shaking? _

“Hey, wait, what’s the matter?” he asked, following.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said, her voice faltering, “but I know for a  _ fact _ that I’ve never met anyone named Goldanna in my life.”

“It’s -- she’s my sister. Half-sister. On my mother’s side.”

Solona looked back over at him, looking smaller, somehow.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I -- I did some checking after I joined the… Grey Wardens.”

The _Wardens._ That was how they'd  _met._ Duncan and Loghain and Cailan and Ostagar. Redcliffe. The realizations were hitting hard and fast now, each disjointed memory sliding into place like a puzzle piece. 

“What happened with the Blight? And -- and the  _ Circle?”   _ Solona  asked. That was a bad sign. If _he_ didn't remember, and _Solona_ didn't know...  _what was going on?_

“I -- it’s a little fuzzy. But… the Circle. It was under attack. We went in to stop it, and then…”

“The sloth demon,” Solona finished. “ _Damn_ _it._ ”

This… was the Fade. And he had just… oh, no. Oh,  _ Maker, _ no.

Before he could fully contemplate the horror he had just made of his relationship with Solona, Goldanna entered the room. If he hadn’t known she was a demon, he might not have noticed, but there was something… off about her. Her smile was a bit  _ too _ wide, her movements a bit  _ too _ fluid.

“Ah, you  _ are _ up, then? Good,” she said, her voice thrumming with an otherworldly undertone. “Solona, darling, we have a surprise for you!”

Solona stared at the demon, disbelieving -- when  _ four _ tall men with black hair walked in. They were all of various ages, and one had much greyer hair than the other three. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Triss? Faron? Owen?” she asked. “... Da?”

“It was your man’s idea,” the one who was clearly supposed to be her father laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Surprised?”

“Very,” Solona said -- and then her father disappeared, and Alistair saw a flash of silver in Solona’s hand.

She  _ stabbed _ him? Well, of course she did, he was a demon. Still, he caught a glimpse of her pained face afterward. That couldn't have been easy.  As the demons all gathered around her, she frantically cast a paralysis glyph, freezing demon-Goldanna -- where was his  _ sword?  _ And as soon as he thought about it, the sword was in his hand, his shield around his arm, his armor exactly as it needed to be -- and he charged between Solona and the remaining demons. She was in her Circle outfit, staff firing at the demons.

It was a short battle. These were not terribly powerful demons. But once the last one fell, the illusion of the room around them melted into the Fade itself.

“Let’s go,” Solona said. She started to walk off.

He grabbed her arm.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“We need to find the others and get out of here.”

“Right, but we don’t know where they are.”

“Everything in the Fade is based on willpower. If we  _ want _ to find them, we will. It doesn’t matter what direction we go,” she said.

“Oh.”

This awkward silence that kept cropping up between them was getting annoying and he was starting to hate it. He wanted to just… be able to talk to her, like a person. But he didn't know what to say to her about... anything, really. So they marched on, completely silent, avoiding talking about the one thing they really needed to talk about. As always.

Which was probably why they weren’t getting anywhere.

A thought struck Alistair.

“Solona,” he asked. “Why did the demon put us in the same dream?”

She stopped, but she didn’t turn to look at him.

“You -- didn’t seem surprised, is all. So I thought you might know.”

“I’m --” she groaned, frustrated. “I’m  _ not _ surprised. I don’t know for  _ certain _ , but I have a guess, and I’m probably right.”

He stood beside her. Her expression was almost pained.

“Is it… is it because you’re -- you know, a mage?”

She gave a tearful laugh.

“Yeah. It is.”

She didn’t elaborate at first, but Alistair didn’t interrupt the silence this time. He could sense that she needed the quiet.

“I -- I mentioned my family before -- you saw them. I’m from Kirkwall, originally. It was me, my Da, and my brothers that I can remember. I did have a mother, but once my eldest brother was taken to the Circle, she just… left. Da watched and waited for her to come back, told us stories about her and her family. And then, my second brother got taken to the Circle as well. We’re all mages,” she explained. “But once my last brother -- Tristan -- was taken, Da moved us to Ferelden. He gave up on my mother for good, and said there was ‘nothing left for us in the Marches.’

“So it was just me and Da for a few years, and then he caught me making pictures out of the frost on the windows -- like most children do, but with magic. It killed him to give me up, I know it did, but he was very religious and he thought it was the right thing to do.

“I was brought to the Circle when I was almost eight. I met my friends, Jowan and Anders, shortly after getting there. My mentor was the First Enchanter himself, and he was never anything but kind to me. I was never afraid of the Templars. Da had always told me they were good people. But I was still… terribly lonely, even with all of that. I missed my family. I missed my home.

“And one night, a year or two later, while I was sleeping, I heard a little boy, calling out into the Fade. He was being cast off by  _ his _ family, and he was angry that no one would listen to him. I tried to help, but I didn’t know he couldn’t hear me. The First Enchanter told me to stay away, but… I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. That was my Voice. He was… the other half of me. I couldn’t leave him alone.

“His life turned from bad to worse. He hated where he was, and he didn’t have anyone to talk to. And then -- his father died. He -- had a dream that night, where… they were all on a ship.”

Wait…  _ no _ . There was  _ no way _ this was possible _._

“And it was raining, and a sailor got tangled in the rigging, and… his father got swept overboard trying to help.”

“Solona --”

“And he was able to pull his father back up, saving his life -- which he hadn’t been able to do in real life.”

“ _ Solona -- _ ”

“And then, less than a year ago, I couldn’t find him in my dreams anymore. He was just… gone one night. I searched for  _ weeks, _ ” she said, holding back her tears, “but I found  _ nothing. _ So I… I waited until Irving needed me to get supplies from the storeroom, and I stole all the lyrium potions I could find quickly. I took them all. Every last one.”

At his alarmed look, she quickly clarified.

“Just -- just to stay in the Fade longer, just to try -- but all I found was that I’d seriously worried a Templar friend of mine. He took me to the infirmary and said I had a fever. They left me to rest, and Jowan found me. I told him my Voice was dead. I never found him in the Fade again, after all, so how could I know otherwise?”

“Solona,” he said, his heart breaking for her. "I --"  What could he even say? He'd just listened to... what she'd just told him... He'd never told anyone about that dream.  _Ever_. He'd honestly hoped to have a version of it again so he could save Duncan, even if it wasn't real. And the only person in Thedas who would have understood that was standing right next to him, telling him _his own_ story.

He felt almost weightless as he realized: _she's always been here. The Arl cast me off, my father didn't want me -- but she saw it all and she's_ still here.

“It’s creepy, right?” she said, letting the tears flow freely now. “It -- spending your whole life spying on someone else’s dreams? Learning all about them without them even knowing you’re there? How awful is that? It’s -- that’s what  _ demons _ do.”

He put his hand under her chin and guided her to look at him. He tried to look reassuring, but he was just -- this was  _ so much. _ It was  _ everything. _ Someone  had _always_ been there. _She_ had always been there. Listening. Understanding. He  _ hadn’t _ been alone.

“You're not a demon," he said. "This -- explains a lot, actually.”

Her eyes went wide, and her hands were shaking, but he just grinned at her.

“You really  _ are _ the girl of my dreams.”

She laughed, even through her tears, leaning into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and it felt  _ so natural. _

“You are the  _ worst, _ ” she said.

“I do my best. What can I say?”

She looked up at him, her eyes practically  _ overflowing _ with emotion. His probably were, too. This was why. This was why she understood him so well, why she knew just what he needed. He wanted to learn everything about her -- so that he could do the same.

He swore to himself, silently, that he would be there for her. He would do  _ anything _ for her.

And he sealed it with a kiss.


	22. Alistair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Guys, this one is the chapter where they find Cullen and Solona kills Uldred, but it is dark and violent. If physical violence and/or oblique references to torture are triggering to you, please skip this chapter.

Things passed in something of a blur after that. Or maybe Alistair just wasn’t paying enough attention. (To be fair, if he was distracted, it was for a good reason.)

Leliana’s dream was unsettling -- she had forgotten who Solona and Alistair were, and only agreed to come with them once the demon posing as her old Revered Mother made a mistake. Wynne’s dream, though, could easily have doubled as a nightmare for Solona. Corpses of all the apprentices they’d met were scattered around a tower room, along with the senior mages and the First Enchanter himself. The demons had even remembered to add Barkspawn to the pile, which was an oddly unsettling touch. He  _ knew _ the dog was alive and well, and so did Solona, but he was quietly relieved when it turned out to be a demon like all the others.

Then they fought the sloth demon itself, and now they were out of the Fade,  _ tearing _ through the rest of the Tower because none of them knew how long they’d been  _ in _ there. The Circle didn’t have any windows this high up, and while they knew it hadn’t been a whole day yet, she and Wynne were panicked about the Templars, the children, Barkspawn, and what might have gotten through. The group killed as many demons as quickly as they could, trying not to miss a single one and still hurry to the top of the Tower.

“Uldred has to be here somewhere,” Wynne remarked. “All that’s left is this next room and the Harrowing Chamber.”

“And if he knew we were here, he’d have killed us while we were dealing with the sloth demon. So we’ve got the element of surprise,” Solona said.

She burst through what Wynne had said was the last door -- and they saw a barrier, glowing a sickly purple-pink.

Solona gave a cry and rushed forward, dropping to her knees with a hard  _ thud _ ; Alistair followed just behind, then realized…  _ there was someone in there, _ on  _ his _ knees. Praying, perhaps. He was in Templar armor, and he spoke haltingly, as if in great pain. 

“This trick again? I know what you are. It won’t work. I will stay strong.”

“Cullen…”

Alistair could hear the heartbreak in her voice. Maybe this was that friend she’d mentioned, the one who helped her. If so… what had happened to him?

“The boy is exhausted. And this cage… I’ve never seen anything like it,” Wynne said. “Rest easy. Help is here.”

“He’s been  _ tortured, _ ” Leliana added. “He’s been denied food and water. I can tell.”

Solona choked back a sob, silently shaking her head, as if to deny that any of this was happening. Alistair wanted to lift her up and get her out of here -- but he couldn’t very well do that. Not before getting the poor man out of there and dealing with Uldred.

“Sifting through my thoughts… tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have… using my shame against me… my ill-advised infatuation with her… a  _ mage _ , of all things…” 

With a shuddering breath, Solona summoned up some mana, and tried to dispel the barrier. Nothing happened. She didn’t turn to Alistair, even as she asked for his assistance.

“Alistair, can you…”

“I -- I don’t know if it will work…”

“ _ Please _ .”

Alistair couldn’t refuse her; she sounded almost  _ broken. _ He tried one of the harder dispelling tactics Templars used. The barrier shimmered, but stayed in place.

“I am so tired of these cruel jokes… these tricks… these…” Cullen said, breaking down into tears. “You broke the others, but I will stay strong… for my sake… for theirs…”

“Cullen, it’s -- we’re going to get you out of there somehow. Whatever it takes --”

“Silence! I’ll not listen to anything you say! Now begone!”

Cullen closed his eyes and took a few shallow, pained breaths. Now that Alistair could see his face properly, he noticed how thin the man looked, as if his skin were stretched over little more than bone. (Alistair couldn’t tell if the fear Cullen had was perfectly justified, paranoia from lyrium withdrawal, or both. Knowing the cruelty of these blood mages, it was probably both.) When Cullen  _ opened _ his (haunted) eyes again, he started.

“Still here? But that’s always worked before!”

Solona put one hand on the barrier.

“I’m real,” she said. “And I’m going to help you.”

“Why have you returned to the Tower? How did you survive?” he asked.

“Outside circumstances brought me here… I only wish it had been sooner. I -- Cullen, I’m  _ so sorry _ \--”

“I don’t need your apologies!” he snapped. Alistair put a hand on Solona’s shoulder, for support. If he had reached through the barrier and slapped her, Solona couldn’t have looked more hurt. “And I am beyond caring what you think! The Maker knows my sin, and I pray he will forgive me.”

“The -- sin of  _ liking someone?” _ Alistair interjected. He was fine with letting Solona have a reunion with her friends, and he felt sorry for the man, but Cullen was  _ deliberately hurting her. _  And as her Voice, he couldn't let that stand.

“It was the foolish fancy of a naive boy. I know better now.”

Solona had gone completely still. It was almost like she was a statue: on her knees before her friend, her hands clenched into fists, staring up at him in horror. Her eyes were absolutely locked on Cullen’s face, but he refused to meet her gaze.

“And to think, I once thought we were too hard on you,” Cullen spat. “But only  _ mages _ have that much power at their fingertips. Only  _ mages _ are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demons.”

“This is a discussion for another time!” Wynne shouted. “Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred. Where are they?”

“They are in the Harrowing chamber. The sounds coming out of there…  _ Maker.” _

“We must hurry. They are in grave danger, I am sure of it,” Wynne said.

“You can’t save them! You don’t know what they’ve become!” Cullen argued. “They’ve been surrounded b-by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts.”

Despite everything, Alistair felt a stab of sympathy -- and kinship.  _ He hates mages as much as I hate Loghain… and for the same reason. _

“ _ What did they do to you?” _ Solona whispered. 

Either Cullen didn’t hear her or he didn’t deign to answer.

“To ensure this horror is ended… to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill  _ everyone _ up there.”

Solona’s face was a mask; Alistair couldn’t tell  _ what _ she was thinking.

“I’ll assess the situation once we’re inside,” Solona said, swallowing hard. “And… that’s all I can promise. Well. That and I’ll bring you Uldred’s head on a  _ pike. _ ”

Cullen said nothing for a long moment, apparently debating whether he wanted to continue arguing or not.

“Maker turn his gaze on you. I hope your  _ wait-and-see _ plan doesn’t doom us all.”

The four of them walked away from Cullen; Solona didn’t so much as look at him again. Her motions were stiff and mechanical. But just before they opened the door to the Harrowing chamber, Solona shot an arm out in front of Alistair. He looked down at her. The tears were streaming down her face, but her expression was one of  _ rage. _

“Uldred is  _ mine, _ ” she growled. 

He couldn’t refuse her that.

Through the door, they heard the telltale crackle of lightning magic, and some muffled screaming.

“Do you accept the gift that I offer?” a deep voice cooed.

Solona burst through the door, Alistair just behind her -- and they saw  _ horror _ . Abominations lined the chamber, and one mage was _electrocuting_ another in the center of the room. Bodies were huddled together in small groups on the floor.  This… this was a  _ nightmare.  _

Before their eyes, the mage who was being electrocuted nodded, glowed white, and transformed into a hideous, twisted facsimile of a man. A hunch of melted flesh had grown over the man’s shoulders and neck -- and the resulting abomination shambled off to join its kin on the perimeter of the room.

The ringleader mage -- who Alistair assumed was Uldred -- was a bald man with a nose sharp enough to cut cheese. He turned to them all with a sickening smile, his eyes settling on Solona.

“Ah, I remember you. Irving’s star pupil,” the mage said with a heavy dose of irony. “Uldred didn’t think much of you then, and I certainly don’t see your appeal now.”

Solona said nothing, but Alistair could see her hands were shaking. It was like the rage was choking her.

“I’m quite impressed you’re still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants,” Uldred said airily. “Ah, well. They are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

“You’re turning people into --  _ monsters!” _ Leliana cried.

“And  _ freeing _ them in the process. A mage is but the larval form of something greater. Your Chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations, when we have truly reached our full potential,” Uldred said, gesturing to the bodies around the room -- which Alistair was shocked to see were still  _ moving. _ “Look at them. The Chantry has them convinced. They deny themselves the pleasure of becoming something glorious.”

“You’re  _ mad! _ ” Wynne shouted. “There’s nothing glorious about what you’ve become, Uldred!”

“Uldred? He is gone!” the abomination laughed. “I am Uldred and yet not Uldred. I am  _ more _ than he was. I could give you this gift -- both of you. You and  _ all _ mages. It would be so much easier if you just… accepted it. But some people can be so stubborn.”

“I’m glad so many of them stood up to you,” Alistair said. He would defy this abomination with everything he had.

“What good did that do? I still won,” Uldred replied. “Oh, wait! Look who we have here! Why, it’s the First Enchanter! Come say hello to your old apprentice, Irving! Don’t mind the blood. He’s had a… hard day.”

If Solona was still before, now she was  _ stiff. _ Frozen and yet tense, like a bowstring drawn back.  Alistair did not envy Uldred.

“What have you  _ done _ to him?” Wynne cried.

“Stop him… he is… building an army…” Irving managed to sputter. “He will… destroy the templars… and --”

“You’re a sly little fox, Irving, telling on me like that!” Uldred said in a tone that one would use on a particularly precocious pet. “And here I thought he was starting to turn.”

“N-never!” Irving shouted.

Solona was saying something quietly to herself -- and only now did anyone notice. Uldred glided forward, as if he had all the time in the world to spare.

“If you’re reciting a spell, rest assured I am  _ far _ more powerful than you could ever --”

He was cut off by Solona’s left hook to his jaw. She had knocked him off-balance, and pressed her advantage with a strike to the chest. 

The abominations charged forward, forcing Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana to close ranks around Solona and Uldred. Alistair had his shield up, guarding Solona with it as much as he could. Leliana’s arrows made satisfying  _ thwip-thud _ sounds into the chests of several abominations before they reached the small circle. Wynne froze a few others, and shattered them with a Stonefist spell. 

If Alistair had been a lesser man, he might have been jealous. Instead, he took a step to the side, and killed an abomination that Leliana’s arrows hadn’t  _ quite _ finished off.

Behind them, Uldred began to prepare another lightning spell, but Solona was not in the mood to play nice. She hit him again in the head. Then the chest. Then the throat. She struck again and again, anywhere she could reach. And now Alistair could hear what she was saying.

_ “You son of a bitch. How dare you,” _ she growled.

An abomination stumbled its way over towards Wynne, and she pushed it back with a Mind Blast spell. While it was stunned, Alistair charged at it, knocking it down with his shield and stabbing it in the neck.

There were only three abominations left now. Easy work for Wynne and Leliana.  

Alistair heard a  _ thud _ and turned around, praying it wasn’t Solona -- and he saw Uldred collapse. Solona kicked him onto his back,  _ hard _ , and straddled his probably-broken ribs, continuing to punch him in the head and neck, repeating the same words over and over: how  _ dare _ you, how  _ dare _ you, how  _ dare _ you.

She didn’t even seem to notice that he was dead. 

“Hey --  _ hey _ . Solona,” Alistair called. 

He pulled her firmly away from Uldred’s body. She seemed deflated now, limp and exhausted. She was kneeling on the floor, like she didn’t have the strength to stand. Alistair pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her waist to support her.

“You did it -- he’s gone, you killed him.”

_ “Only once.” _

She stared off into the distance, unreachable by any of them for a long moment. Then, she seemed to return to herself somewhat.

“Would you and Leliana help my fr-- Cullen… get down the stairs, please? I don’t know what sort of condition he’s in, so bring some water and some elfroot potions… and I hate to ask, but if you’ve any lyrium to spare, I’m sure he could use it.”

Alistair blinked.

“Are you…  _ sure _  you want us to go?”

“The mages can look after their own,” she replied. Her words were clipped, but he understood.  _ Give us space. _

Solona broke from his grip and stood on her own two wobbly legs. She stumbled over to where the First Enchanter and a small group of other mages were huddled. The First Enchanter grabbed hold of Solona and embraced her with all the protective fierceness of a father. Alistair heard him say something like “well done,” as Solona apologized and buried her face in his shoulder. The two of them started to cry as they held onto each other, and it spread to the other mages and Wynne -- a mournful wail for those lives that had been so senselessly lost.

Alistair turned away from them, wiping a tear from his own eye. He and Leliana walked down the stairs.


	23. Solona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-long chapter this time, my lovelies. Thank you so, so much for sticking with the story so far. I'm excited about where we're headed and I adore all of you!
> 
> Also: references to "Fire, Walk With Me" (by the ever-amazing Khirsah) are in this chapter! If you haven't read it, do yourself a favor and give it a look! You should also check out the Inquisition-era Voice-verse story by Khirsah and the equally-lovely Delazeur called "By Any Other Name". Trust me: BEYOND WORTH IT. (Those stories did inspire me to write this one, after all!)

Every child in the Circle learned that tears were a weakness. They attracted the attention of the Templars, who were always watching for “undue displays of emotion,” as well as the other apprentices, who were always watching to make sure no one got them in trouble. And so, every child in the Circle either did away with the need for tears entirely (as Jowan, who cultivated a shallowness of feeling, or Anders, who hid behind his humor, did) or they learned to shed their tears in absolute silence.

Solona was one of the latter.

Alone in the room Bann Teagan had graciously assigned her for the night ( _it’s the least we can do after you saved Connor,_ ), without anyone watching or listening, or any worry that anyone _would_ , Solona could still only let herself go in complete, all-encompassing silence.

A short -- but not _too_ short -- knock at the door announced that perhaps someone _was_ listening.

“Who is it,” she managed to squeak through a swollen throat.

“It’s -- it’s me. Alistair. I know you probably don’t want to talk about it -- and that’s fine, really, you can take your time -- but I brought you something and… I thought you might want it.”

Solona wiped her eyes on her sleeve, fruitlessly attempted to do something about the mess that was her hair, and, taking a deep breath, opened the door.

Alistair, _not_ in his usual armor, but a slightly-too-big dark blue shirt and pants she didn’t know he had, stood just at the threshold with -- a tea tray. A small blue teapot with encouraging steam rising from the spout sat in the middle, with two almost-matching teacups beside it, and some fried bread on a napkin.

She looked from the tray to the man and back again a few times over. He turned pink from the tips of his ears to his cheeks.

“I, ah -- the First Enchanter told me you like tea, and once the new kitchen staff heard that, they were _overjoyed_ to provide some.”

Solona took a step to the side, letting Alistair come in -- which he did with an almost comical amount of care. She shut the door behind him and sat down on the bed. Alistair held the teapot as gently as he would hold a kitten, and he poured her a cup.

He offered her the cup; she took it, feeling somewhat grounded from its warmth against her hands. It was too hot to drink just yet, but it was comforting all the same. Alistair sat down next to her.

“You’ve been up here since you came back from the Fade. I -- thought you might be hungry, and you like tea, and everyone loves fried bread -- um, unless you don’t, I mean, it is a little bland, but I didn’t want to make you wait for something more complicated --”

“Alistair.”

She couldn’t help the soft chuff of breath that escaped her or the smile playing about her lips.

“I guess it was just a stupid impulse. I don’t know, was it the wrong one?”

“Not at all.”

Solona put the teacup on the floor, lest she spill it. She laid her head down on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

“Why are you being nice to me?” she asked.

She immediately felt ungrateful. But, really, why _was_ he? After everything that had happened, she barely felt comfortable in her own _skin,_ so why was _anyone_ \-- let alone _Alistair,_ of all people, good-hearted soul that he was -- concerned about _her_ well-being?

“The whole ‘Voice’ thing comes to mind, for one,” he said. She could _hear_ the lopsided grin in his voice.

“... I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Irving told Duncan to recruit me to get me out of the Circle, and now there’s a Blight, and the Circle’s destroyed, and you’re stuck with _me_ instead of someone capable.”

“You’re perfectly -- you’re _more than_ capable, and you _saved_ the Circle.”

“By, what, a day? The Right of Annulment was all but certain. The Templars would have killed Uldred. Fuck, after what happened, Greagoir would probably have beaten him to death _anyway,”_ Solona said.

“Even if I granted that -- and I don’t -- what about your friend Cullen? You rescued him. Just because _he_ can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not _true._ ”

“He survived on his _own_ strengths. He’d have made it through, whether I was there or not,” Solona said, the tears starting to build again. “I changed _nothing_ . I helped _no one._ ”

“You helped Connor,” Alistair said. “The Templars even agreed that he can stay home until the end of the war.”

“Because they need time to rebuild the Circle before taking in anyone new. Because I failed them.”

“You helped _me._ ”

She looked away. _It’s only a matter of time before I fail you, too_.

“You know, you can put down the world anytime. It looks uncomfortable to keep holding it like that,” he said, rubbing her arm playfully.

“We’re _Grey Wardens,_ Alistair. And somehow I’m in charge -- of all the horrifying thoughts -- so putting this weight on these bony shoulders is sort of my job now.”

“Your shoulders are _not_ bony. And anyway, being a Grey Warden doesn’t mean you need to carry everything _all_ the time,” Alistair said. “And I would know. I was a Grey Warden for _six whole months_ before you were recruited.”

She took a look at him from her perch on his shoulder in disbelief. The way this man switched from awkward to sincere to sarcastic and back again… she found it endearing, though it wasn’t matching up to the gaping chasm of loss and grief that had settled in her chest.

“... I wanted to come up here and thank you, anyhow. You went out of your way to save the arl’s family and you did it, even though it would have been easier not to.”

“You and I have vastly different definitions of ‘easy,’” Solona replied. “Killing a child would be just about the hardest thing I could ever do. ‘Going out of my way’ to save him was _vastly_ easier.”

“And _that’s_ why Duncan recruited you,” Alistair said, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Irving might have told him about you, but Duncan -- if he recruited someone, it’s because he saw something in them that was _worthy_ of being a Grey Warden. Not just skill, but principles and conscience.”

Solona’s lower lip trembled -- like a _child’s,_ as if her carefully-constructed facade of adulthood was going to come crashing down around her -- and she pulled away, burying her head in her hands.

“Hey -- wait, I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? Don’t cry -- I mean, cry if you have to, really, it’s all right, but --” Alistair sounded disgusted with himself. “That -- sounded better in my head. But…”

She couldn’t bring herself to be comforted by that. The tears were slipping through her fingers, fast and scalding hot, leaving little drips on the skirt of her robe.

_The Circle is gone. Half of Redcliffe is gone. The Grey Wardens are gone, Duncan and Cailan are gone. Irving and Cullen are still here, technically, but -- how many other people are we going to lose? How many more people am I going to fail to save?_

Solona heard Alistair get up from the bed -- of course he would, whether she was ruining this because of the crushing despair or he’d realized that what she was saying was true, it didn’t matter. He _should_ leave. Everyone who got close to her, even for a moment, ended up dead, gone, or irrevocably changed. Even him. Perhaps _especially_ him.

And then she felt a strong hand on one of her wrists. Not pulling, just gently resting there -- an invitation that she was free to decline. _Please look at me,_ it said. _Or not. Just -- it’s an option, you know?_

She looked up -- in spite of every good instinct the Circle had tried to teach her -- and saw Alistair on his knees in front of her, looking, for once in his life, perfectly serious behind his smile. He let go of her wrist and wiped some of her tears away in a deliberate caress.

“Well -- this seems as good a time as any,” he said. “Here -- do you know what this is?”

From behind his back, he revealed -- a big, beautiful, deep red rose. It was trembling slightly -- were his hands shaking? He looked away for half a heartbeat, then locked his eyes on hers.

“Literally?” she asked. Because while yes, it was a flower, metaphorically speaking, it could _mean_ any number of things.

“I was thinking I’d use it as a new weapon. Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I shall overpower you with my rosy scent!” Alistair said. “Or, you know, it could just be a rose. I know that’s pretty dull by comparison.”

Solona couldn’t help the tiny smile she had. Alistair took a breath, and continued.

“I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, ‘how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?’” He ran a thumb over the velvety petals. “I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I’ve had it ever since.”

“That’s -- very sweet, Alistair.”

“I thought that I might -- give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you.”

Solona was shocked still, her eyes moving from the rose to Alistair and back again.

“You’ve had none of the good experience of being a Grey Warden since your Joining. Not a word of thanks or congratulations. It’s just been death and fighting and tragedy,” he said. “I thought maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this… darkness.”

He held the flower out to her; she took it with a watery smile. She could try to overanalyze this, figuring out _exactly what it all means_ using bits of plant lore she’d picked up at her time in the Circle, or what red roses were a metaphor for in poetry, or even beat herself up for being undeserving of it -- because she certainly _was_ , she hadn’t done _anything_ worthy of something like this -- but… this time, maybe she should just make her thoughts shut up and enjoy the pretty flower her Voice gave her.

“Thank you,” she said.

And they sat in silence for a moment, before Alistair cleared his throat.

“So… I’ve, er, never been anyone’s Voice before. How am I doing?”

“You’re perfect,” she said.

“Oh, good.” He let out a sigh of relief. “I was worried there for a minute.”

Solona chuckled. Then hesitated. She put the rose down beside her and took his hand, gently guiding him to sit with her.

“We… didn’t have time to go into it before, so -- _do_ you actually know what a Voice is?”

“Sort of? In the Chantry, some of the initiates would whisper about it a little, that it… gives a mage total control over someone else. A bit like blood magic.”

“Wow,” she said with a very Alistairian laugh. “No. I mean, maybe in Tevinter or somewhere, but just… no. Not at all.”

“I thought as much,” Alistair admitted. “A friend of mine talked about something that sounds similar. He said that he could see into the dreams of another boy. I think he said he was a slave, far away.”

“Was this Aidan?”

“You -- did I dream about him?”

“Often, especially a few years ago. He seemed kind.”

“He was. I wonder if he ever found the boy.”

“I’m sure he did.”

Alistair squeezed her hand. She brought herself to look him in the eyes -- this was a moment for honesty -- and what she found there overwhelmed her. Gratitude and kindness and care -- if she could see him looking at her like that every day, it was all she could ask for.

“Anyway, _no._ It’s not a blood magic thing. It’s -- between Voices, there is the potential for a bond. A soul bond. I’m… not clear on _all_ of the specifics, but basically, a bonded mage is more powerful, and a bonded _couple_ can sort of… feel each other’s emotions. But like all power, it has a few… functional limitations,” Solona said. “Once the bond is made, I don’t think there’s any way to _un_ make it. So if you bond with your Voice, you’re bonded for life.”

Alistair gave a low whistle. There wasn’t really any other response to that, really. Solona wanted to heal this, smooth it all over so that it didn’t sound quite so bad, so she quickly added:

“Like I said, all that’s there right now is _potential._ It -- doesn’t _have_ to happen.”

“How _would_ it go from ‘potential’ to ‘real’?”

“Um. Well… it… the bond forms due to… um.”

Her face was hot, and probably the brightest possible red. And Alistair was just smiling kindly at her, waiting for her to finish stammering out her sentence. Damn him. She fussed with the end of her braid, for want of something to do with her free hand.

“It -- forms by itself, there’s no magic ritual or whatever, but… it… it takes intimacy. Like… physically.”

“Oh… _Oh._ ” Alistair’s blush now matched her own. It wasn’t fair that it was adorable on him. She always felt so horrified when _she_ blushed.

“I mean -- most Voices don’t, um, _mind_ . It usually ends up being a romantic kind of thing. Because it’s… you’re sort of _drawn to_ your Voice, in a way. Like, they get under your skin and settle there -- and you need them there like you need to breathe.”

“Speaking from experience, I take it?” Alistair teased.

“Honestly? Yes.”

He hadn’t expected that, had he? His grin faded immediately, replaced by a vulnerable, earnest expression he didn’t often wear. He cupped her cheek with his free hand, running his thumb along just along her cheekbone.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. Have _you_ ever…”

“Ever… ever what? Ever had a good pair of shoes?”

"You know what I mean, Alistair," Solona said, face both red and grumpy.

“I’m not sure I do. Have I never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?”

“You are _ridiculous.”_

“I try,” he said with his most charming grin. “Well, tell me. Have _you_ ever _licked a lamppost in winter?”_

She tried to give him a flat look, but she ended up smiling.

“No. Literally or otherwise.”

“Good, I hear it’s quite painful. One of the younger initiates did it on a dare once and there was pointing and laughing…  oh, the humanity,” he said, playing up the drama. “I, myself, have also never done… it. That. Not that I haven’t thought about it, of course, but… you know.”

“The Chantry will do that,” Solona said.

“Exactly. It’s not a life for rambunctious boys. They taught me to be a gentleman. Especially in the presence of beautiful women such as yourself. That’s… not so bad, is it?”

Solona felt almost weightless for a moment. Nobody had _ever_ told her she was beautiful. Well -- no, Da had, but… this was different. This was _very_ different.

“You… think I’m beautiful?”

“Of course you are, and you _know_ it.”

Solona looked away.

“You -- you _do_ know it, right? Like, all the boys and half the girls in the Circle told you so often it got annoying to hear it? Especially the one with the crush on you?”

“He was too frightened of me to actually talk to me much.”

“... I can see that.”

“Oh, wow, _thanks.”_

“Beautiful women are intimidating. Especially ones who can throw a rock the size of a house at your head if you offend them.”

“I would _never --_ well… all right, good point.”

Alistair laughed. Solona joined him, in spite of everything else that had happened. He centered her, grounded her, forced her to find the joy in things.

 _How could I ever do this without you?_ she thought, as she reached up to stroke his cheek.

“Can I ask… Why didn’t you tell me earlier? You know, about the whole… Voice… thing,” he said.

“Like, hi, nice to meet you, your name is Alistair, I know that because I watch you while you sleep?” she deadpanned.

“Fair enough.” He laughed.

“Honestly, though?” Her gaze drifted away from him and her tone went serious. “Very little of your life has been by your choice. You didn’t choose your parentage, you didn’t choose to be a Templar, you didn’t even choose to be a Grey Warden, Duncan did. So I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that here’s something else you don’t get a choice in, something else that _someone_ else has already decided for you. I couldn’t -- I _can’t_ \-- do that to you.”

Alistair looked suddenly terrified -- she was mangling this already, and she hadn’t even started. _Maker,_ what a mess she was. Solona took both of his hands in hers, trying to _will_ him to feel how much she _meant this._

“So I decided… _not_ to decide. You know what’s going on, and I’ll answer any more questions you have, if I can, but -- when or _if_ any bond forms between us -- it’s your call. No strings. No pressure. I’ll understand either way, and I’ll stand by you regardless.”

Alistair opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to formulate words, and it was just so Maker-taken _adorable_ that she smiled and squeezed his hands.

“It -- a bond is _forever,_ and… considering that Grey Wardens don’t tend to live long, peaceful, idyllic lives -- I don’t want to stand in the way if this isn’t what you want.”

“Why would you think this _isn’t_ what I want?”

She smiled.

“I don’t. I just -- I’m willing to wait, take this slow, whatever you want. I want you to be happy. I wasn’t -- I wasn’t really prepared to ever meet you. I didn’t think it would happen,” she said. “And with everything we do, all the battles we get into, it’s… it’s like my heart is walking around outside me, and all I can do is protect it as best I can. But even though this is new to me, it’s even _newer_ to you.”

Slowly, he brought his lips down to her hand, for a proper courtly kiss. As if she were a lady. A _princess._ It was gentle and sweet and almost sacred.

 _I love you,_ she thought. It echoed with every beat of her heart. _I love you, I love you._

“It feels -- unfair, though. In a way. You know a lot about me, but… I don’t know all that much about _you,_ ” Alistair said.

“There’s… not a lot to know.”

“However much or little there is, I’d -- like to learn. If you don’t mind.”

She took a glance at Alistair. His eyes were pleading with her, for just this one chance. And so she reached into her pack, pulling out her small brown leather journal. She flipped to the front.

An old sketch of a middle-aged man stared back at her. His hair was dark, but greying at the temples, and he had a large nose and large, caring eyes. She could see so many flaws in the art, so many different ways she could improve the drawing, that she nearly cringed to look at it.

“This is your father, right?” Alistair asked.

Solona nodded. “How I remember him, anyway. He probably looks different now.”

“You have the same eyes.”

She smiled softly, flipping to the next page, where a much younger Solona had drawn a little house with terrible proportions and a roof that looked like it was going to fall down. She laughed when she saw it.

“Oh, it’s _awful,_ ” she said. “This was _supposed_ to be our house. Da’s and mine. I don’t remember the home we had in Kirkwall; I was too young. This is the only place I ever remember living before the Circle. It was small, but it was home.”

On the next page, First Enchanter Irving stood in front of a room full of students, lecturing.

“I -- forget what he was actually trying to teach us about that day,” Solona said. “I’m sure I _know_ it, I just can’t recall. It had to have been early on, though.”

The two of them went through page after page of the sketchbook, with Solona explaining who each person was and how it mattered to her: this was her old room at the Circle, these were her best friends.

“Now _he_ looks like trouble,” Alistair said, when they reached a picture of Anders.

“He is,” Solona replied with a laugh. “He escaped the Circle something like ten times.”

“ _Ten?”_

“It’s a talent,” Solona said, tracing just above Anders’ smile with her fingers. “I even helped once.”

“You -- really?”

“What? Did you think I _always_ followed the rules?” Solona teased. “And it was important, that time.”

“You miss him.”

“Always. But never for long. He’s not so good at _staying_ gone.”

The page that had Cullen’s picture on it -- he was standing, wearing his armor, rubbing the back of his neck with a bashful smile… She’d been _so proud_ when she finally managed to capture her gentle friend on paper. She’d even debated showing it to him, but decided against it. She regretted that now.

“He’ll come around,” Alistair said.

“How are you so sure?”

“They never broke him. He’s still in there under all that grief. He just needs time and distance to sort himself out.”

“You sounded almost wise there,” Solona replied, smiling at him.

“Don’t tell anyone, would you? I have a reputation.”

“I just -- I wish he hadn’t had to suffer at all.”

Solona didn’t expect a reply. There was nothing to say to that. Alistair squeezed her hand and they turned the page. It had a sketch of Duncan on it, with a kind chuckle clearly visible in his body language.

“Here,” she said. “You keep this one.”

Alistair blinked, looking away from the drawing to Solona.

“But isn’t this your only sketchbook?”

“It is, but I don’t really like drawing in it. It’s too _nice._ It feels so _official_ ,” Solona laughed softly. “So I ended up drawing on anything else I could find. I used to hide drawings behind the mirrors in the apprentice quarters. You know, take off the back of the mirror, put the drawing inside, replace the back? The Templars _never_ look there. I save this book for the important drawings -- things that matter.”

“I don’t want to _rip_ it, if it’s that nice.”

“Do you want the sketch or not?”

“Well -- I mean, _yes,_ but…”

Solona stared him down as she tore the page out carefully and handed it to Alistair. He folded it and set it aside, looking slightly sheepish.

_Oh shit._

Solona had forgotten that the next page was a sketch of Alistair himself. Oh no oh no oh no, no, _no,_ he couldn’t see it. It wasn’t a good drawing at all, it wasn’t even _finished,_ he’d be upset, she hadn’t told him that she was drawing him -- she started to move her hand to cover the drawing… but it was too late.

A pencil sketch of Alistair doing battle with a darkspawn stared up at them. The darkspawn was on the defensive, as Alistair pressed forward, trying to take it out with his shield.

“Wow,” he said.

He was silent for a long moment, and Solona wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

“I like it. The lines are very… wooshy.”

She stared at him, jaw dropped. That was exactly what she’d been going for.

“What?” Alistair asked. “Did I -- say something wrong?”

Solona closed the sketchbook, put it aside, and kissed him.

He gave a muffled sound of surprise… but quickly relaxed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. Her lips parted for his tongue, and the two of them _cleaved_ to each other, as if they couldn’t possibly be close enough.

She placed slow, gentle kisses along his jawline and down his neck; he shivered and made a quiet moan.

“S-Solona,” he whispered, his voice gone husky.

And _Maker_ if that wasn’t the best thing she had _ever_ heard.

She stopped, though, in case that was a protest, rather than encouragement. She pulled away, though she noticed he didn’t let go of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back. “I got -- carried away. It’s just… you’re trying so hard to… to get to know me as a person, and to understand. You brought me tea, you listened, you complimented my terrible artwork… I -- appreciate you. And I want you to know that.”

He pulled her back to him and kissed her again. But _this_ kiss wasn’t Solona’s abrupt ‘appreciation.’ This was heartbreakingly tender; he was showing her his heart. And so she showed hers in return, thinking what she wouldn’t let herself say: _I love you, I love you, I’ve always loved you._

They spent the rest of the night like that, alternately talking, kissing, and having the (magically-reheated) fried bread and tea. Dawn found them tangled together, holding on as if they never meant to let go.

 

**END OF PART TWO**


	24. Alistair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this chapter is 5000 words long. A few of those words are less than work-appropriate.

It was lucky they reached Denerim before it started to snow. Alistair was mostly all right, considering he wore armor most of the time, but Wynne and Solona were obviously _freezing_ with the quick drop in temperature that heralded winter in Ferelden. They’d all agreed to coming to the city in slightly staggered groups so that no one drew undue attention, and Alistair and Solona were on their own for the first half-hour.

The chance to be _alone_ with Solona for the first time since Redcliffe had been rather a large selling point on this plan. When they woke up that morning, after sleeping together -- not,  not _sleeping together,_ just literally sleeping side-by-side -- they’d agreed to… take things slow.

And even though it was _his idea_ , and there were good reasons for it, and all that -- Maker, it was driving him _crazy_ . Now that he _knew_ , now that they’d _kissed_ , it was _so much harder_ to keep away. He felt… touch-starved, and there was only one person who could make that go away. Alistair even mentioned that to Solona, and she’d just smiled softly at him and didn't say anything.

There was another reason for splitting up into groups, though. While the other members of the party were interested in doing shopping of all kinds, Solona and Alistair were going hunting for two very particular individuals: namely, Brother Genitivi and -- hopefully -- Goldanna.

A poster on the wall caught his eye: _WANTED,_ _for treason and regicide_ … with a portrait of Solona, done badly in pencil.  _She could draw a better one,_ he thought nonsensically. He hovered an arm behind her shoulders, guiding her away from the poster. He didn’t want her to have to see that, even though he knew she probably _should._ Still, he positioned himself between her and the street, lest anyone recognize her as they passed the Chantry.

_“All men are the work of our Maker’s hands_

_From the lowest slaves to the highest kings._

_Those who bring ham without provocation_

_Are breaded and accursed by the Maker.”_

That… wasn’t exactly how Alistair remembered it. Solona and Alistair, as if by mutual agreement, slowed their walk almost to a stop. _I have to have heard wrong,_ Alistair thought.

_“The one who repents, who has faith_

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world_

_And roasts not, nor gloats_

_Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight_

_In the Maker’s law and creations, she shall know_

_The bees of the Maker’s benediction._

_The Light shall lead her safely_

_Through the paths of this world, and into the next.”_

Oh, there was no mistake. Alistair thought his ribcage was going to explode. He couldn’t breathe, but he couldn't laugh _._

_“The Veal holds no uncertainty for her,_

_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_

_Shall be her bacon and her shield --”_

The Chanter was interrupted by someone else, but Solona leaned over to him, her whisper a tickle against his ear.

_“Blessed are the cheese-keepers, the champions of the crust.”_

Alistair snorted. And they both _lost it._ Their laughter was loud, undignified, and infectious -- or, at least, made people passing by crack a smile.

“I wonder why nobody taught me her version of the Chant when I was a templar,” Alistair managed to squeeze out between giggles.

“It’s clearly better,” Solona agreed, wheezing and wiping a tear from her eye. She stood up straight after a moment and looked at him and… they needed to keep moving, right? Right. No distractions right now.

And yet, there was one. Well, several, really. But one big one. It sounded so stupid, but… he wanted to hold her hand. It… couldn’t be bad to do that, right? It was just _holding hands,_ after all, it’s not like it was scandalous or anything. There were probably dozens of couples all doing it _right now_ \-- and… they _were_ a couple, right? His hand reached into the empty space between them, then came back to his side, over and over again, as he tried to decide if he should do this or not.

When they arrived at the address Lady Isolde had given them -- was Solona shaking?

“Nervous?” Alistair asked. She took a deep breath.

“I know we’re here for Arl Eamon. But I've read _all_ of Brother Genitivi’s books that the Circle had, and I have _no idea_ what I’m going to say to him.”

Alistair chuckled and reached over her to knock on the door. She let out a small squeak, and the door was answered -- by a person who, from Solona’s disappointed stare, was _not_ Brother Genitivi.

“Hello?” the man said, looking bewildered.

“Hello. We were, um, looking for Brother Genitivi?” Solona looked a bit like Barkspawn when he had to wait for dinner.

“My name is Weylon. I’m Brother Genitivi’s assistant.”

“Is he in?” Solona asked.

“No. I haven’t seen him in weeks. He’s sent no word. It’s so unlike him,” Weylon said in a monotone. “I’m afraid something has happened. Genitivi’s research into the Urn may have led him into danger.”

Weylon seemed strangely unconcerned, standing casually in the doorway of the scholar’s home. His voice was that of a man who wished to _sound_ concerned, with no real emotion -- or even decent acting -- behind it. Solona’s eyes narrowed slightly. Alistair doubted Weylon noticed, but he knew Solona well enough to know when she was onto something.

“Why would searching for the Urn lead him into danger?” Solona asked pointedly.

“Perhaps the Urn has been lost for a reason. I pray for Genitivi’s safety, but hope dwindles with each passing day.”

“Where did Brother Genitivi go?” Alistair asked.

“All he said before he left was that he was going to an inn near Lake Calenhad. He was investigating something in that area.”

Solona raised an eyebrow. “What was he investigating, exactly?”

“I don’t know. All I discovered from going through his research was that he was staying at the inn.”

“Brother Genitivi is excellent with this sort of thing,” Solona said, her voice casual. “I mean, he found the lost city of Barindur. What’s the Urn of Sacred Ashes to a city gone missing?”

“He -- he is exceptional, and that was a brilliant find of his. To be sure. But this search -- some things are not meant to be found. I know that now.”

“Who are you, really?” Solona asked.

 _Got you,_ Alistair thought, letting a small proud smirk cross his face, even though he didn't know what was happening.

“What -- I’m _Weylon,_ Genitivi’s assistant --”

“Are you? His assistant should know exactly where he is, or, at the very least, would be able to keep his own story straight. And his assistant should know that Genitivi _never found the lost city of Barindur._ ” Solona, understandably, looked a bit smug.

“I gave you a chance to turn aside and forget you ever heard about Genitivi and the Urn. But you persisted. Now it has come to this,” the man posing as Weylon hissed. “Andraste forgive me. I do this in Your Name.”

He fired a spell at Solona, knocking her back. But he didn’t stand a chance against Alistair. One quick cut of his sword, and the man calling himself Weylon was dealt with.

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked, helping Solona up.

Solona nodded, and the pair of them stepped into the house proper. She looked around quickly, trying to get an idea of the layout, Alistair supposed. Or trying to plan what to do now. Or both.

“Let’s look around,” Solona said. “We might be able to find a clue to where Brother Genitivi _really_ went.”

Alistair began to inspect the books on the shelves, while Solona went into the kitchen.

“That was good thinking, by the way,” he called.

“What was?”

“The Barindur thing. He should have known about Genitivi’s research. _You’d_ have made a better assistant than that… impostor.”

“If I’d ever had half a chance, I’d have jumped at that. It would have been a _dream,_ ” Solona said.

“‘Would have?’” Alistair asked.

“It’s… a less desirable life than the one I have now. Blight notwithstanding.”

He and Solona had been together for weeks, and Alistair _still_ hadn’t managed to figure out how she stole the breath out of him with just _words._ He paused in his search, turning and intending to go into the kitchen to talk to her properly -- but she was standing in the doorway, framed by the light from the other side. And it was all too easy to imagine that _this_ , one day, could be _theirs_ . One day it might be _their_ kitchen and _their_ dining room, and she might be leaning against their door frame, looking at him fondly in just this way.

“All I’ve found so far are a few books on dragon cults,” she began -- then stopped and smiled. “What’s that look for?”

“I don’t know, is there some particular way you’re supposed to look at your Voice? Be gentle, I bruise easily.”

Solona chuckled, walking towards him. She came close -- _very_ close. He could feel the warmth of her body, though they still weren’t actually touching. And he was _positive_ she could feel his heartbeat. He was positive half of _Denerim_ could feel it, the way his heart was battering itself against his ribcage.

She raised a hand and rested it on his chest. Alistair shivered as she slowly brought her eyes up to his. They caught -- held.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, brushing a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.

“We’ve been together every day.”

“Not like this.”

Solona sighed, pulling away. “I’m sorry.”

_Wait, no, that’s not what I meant._

Alistair pulled her back toward him, wrapping his arms around the curve of her waist. The world outside ceased to matter as those big blue eyes that always captivated him met his own. He placed a gentle, reassuring kiss on her forehead. A delicate pink flush swirled up and over her cheeks as she leaned forward, resting her hands on his arms.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered.

He smiled softly as she took a few steps toward what had to be the bedroom. Alistair followed behind. It was probably best that they didn’t get distracted just now. They needed to find out where Genitivi _really_ went.

The room was large -- almost as large again as the kitchen -- and full of bookshelves, papers, and other scribblings. A large desk was positioned near the door, and a bed was located a bit farther away. This room was pulling double-duty as a bedroom and an office.

Toward the center of the room there was a chest. Solona paused a moment, then opened it. She pulled out a large leather book and began looking at it wonderingly.

“His _research_ ,” she breathed.

“Then -- this could lead us right to him?”

“I’ll need some time to look at it and narrow down some options. But hopefully, yes.”

By the bed was a large, oddly-shaped lump of carpeting. Alistair’s curiosity got the better of him. Solona followed close behind as he unrolled the carpet -- and recoiled: a body.

“ _Fuck_.”

Alistair had to agree.

“Brother Genitivi?” he asked.

“No, this -- this man doesn’t look like his portrait.”

“Weylon, then? The real one?”

“Probably,” Solona said. “Or someone else who got too close.”

“Poor sod.”

Leaving the house, the pair wandered around a bit more, getting hopelessly lost in the middle of

Denerim. It wasn’t the busiest day he’d ever seen in Denerim, but there were a lot of people outside. More than Solona might be used to.

“How are you feeling?” Alistair asked.

Solona blinked at him.

“I mean, you haven’t been in a city -- have you? Not… not since you went to the Circle, anyhow, right?”

“It’s big and loud and bright,” she said, flashing him the biggest grin. “And _I love it._ ”

“Oh. Good. I was -- just wondering if you were… overwhelmed at all. It’s a lot of people.”

“It is,” she admitted. “But I love it anyway.”

“Was the Circle very quiet?”

Solona laughed outright. “No. We were supposed to keep the noise to a minimum, but there were several _hundred_ people all in the same building. There’s only so much you can do. Eventually, the noise fades into a kind of hum in the background and you stop noticing it so much. And there are always quieter corners and out-of-the-way spaces.”

“Like the library?”

“Specifically, one _corner_ of the library. It was dark, so no one liked to read there, but I didn’t mind. Sometimes others would have to use it, but generally speaking, it was mine.”

“The Wonders of Thedas!” Alistair said, pointing out a shop just ahead of them. “Arl Eamon bought me a miniature golem doll here once. I… had to leave it behind when I was sent to the Chantry.”

“That’s awful. You were a child,” Solona said.

“Didn’t you have to leave everything behind when you went to the Circle?”

Solona paused, and Alistair wished he could take the question back. But she had let him in before, and she seemed to want to continue that, because she went on.

“I had one little wooden doll that my father carved for me. I made clothes for her, tucked her into bed at night, read her stories, that sort of thing. She went with me everywhere,” Solona said.

“And that was _all_ you had?”

“Da and I used to play cards sometimes.”

“For coin?”

“No, never. Da used all of the money from his family’s estate coming to Ferelden. He grew up noble and had to learn a trade as an adult, which meant we didn’t have any coin to spare.”

Alistair didn’t know what to say to her, so he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She brought his hand up to her lips -- and didn’t let go, even as they walked on. Why was this so much _easier_ for her?

“I didn’t really feel it, growing up. I had Da, and a friend or two, and my doll. It was just… how things were,” she said. “I remember when I first saw the library at the Circle and my jaw hit the floor. We had a book or two, but _that_ … it was _magical._ I didn’t think it could possibly be real.”

Alistair stopped. This was the street. _The_ street. _Goldanna’s_ street.

“Everything all right? Was I boring you? Because we could talk about something else --”

“What? No! Not at all, it’s just… that’s… that’s my sister’s house. I’m almost sure of it, this is… yes, this is the right address. She could be inside. Could we… go and see?”

“Of course we can --”

“Do I seem a little nervous? I am. I really don’t know what to expect. I’d like you to be there with me, if you’re willing. Or we could… leave, I suppose. We really don’t have time to pay a visit, do we? Maybe we should go.”

“We can _make_ time --”

“Will she even know who I am? Does she know I exist? My sister. That sounds very strange. ‘Sister. Siiiissster…’ Hmm. Now I’m babbling. Maybe we should go. Let’s go. Let’s just… go.”

“Alistair,” Solona said, giving his hands a squeeze. He stopped. “It’s going to be fine.”

They stepped into a small, dark house -- almost a hut, really -- that looked to be clean, but in poor repair.

“Er… hello?” Alistair called. A tall, slim woman emerged from the shadows of one of the rooms beyond. She spotted them and walked easily forward, as if she were used to this.

“Eh? You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on a bundle, you won’t find better. And don’t trust what that Natalia woman says. She’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.”

“I’m… not here to have any wash done. My name’s Alistair. I’m… well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna? If so, I suppose I’m your brother.”

“My what? I am Goldanna, yes… how do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery are you folk up to?”

“Look, our mother… she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that? She --”

 _“You!_ I knew it! They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with Mother, but I knew they was lying.”

“They -- told you I was dead? Who? Who told you that?”

“Them’s at the castle! I told them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!”

“I’m sorry, I… didn’t know that. The babe didn’t die. I’m him; I’m… your brother.”

The babe might not have been dead, but any hope of a relationship with his sister died with her next scornful words.

“For all the good it does me! You killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time? That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back, they ran me off!”

“That’s not _Alistair’s_ fault!” Solona cut in. Her face was _bright red_ with anger, and her hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were bleeding white.

“And who in the Maker’s name are you? Some tart, following after his riches, I expect?”

Alistair was not a man who angered easily. But this time, he’d make an exception. This was _Solona._

“Hey! Don’t speak to her that way! She’s -- she’s a Grey Warden, just like me!”

“Ooohhh, I see. A prince and a Grey Warden, too. Well, who am I to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me?” Goldanna spat. “I don’t know you, boy. Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me, and what do I got to show for it? Nothing. They tricked me good! I should have told everyone! I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you.”

“I… I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what to say.”

Alistair deflated. This wasn’t how he’d expected this going at all.

“I hate to say it, Alistair, but I don’t think there’s anything for you here,” Solona muttered through clenched teeth. She turned her back to Goldanna and brought one arm against his chest, as if shielding him from his sister’s painful words. If only it were that easy.

“Yes, it really seems that way, doesn’t it? I’m starting to wonder why I came.”

“I don’t know why you came, either, or what you expected to find,” Goldanna said. “But it isn’t here! Get out of my house, both of you!”

The sister he’d been hoping to meet for the better part of a year threw him out of her house and slammed the door on his dreams of family.

And the soulmate he’d never expected to have looked a bit like she was about to set that house on fire.

“Are you all right?” Solona asked, putting a hand on his arm.

“... Not really, no. This is the family I’ve been wondering about all my life? That’s my sister? I can’t believe it,” he said. “I… I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do?”

 _What a stupid question,_ he thought to himself. _Only Duncan and Solona have ever accepted me without question. Everyone else wants something._

“I could do an ice shard between her shoulder blades. It won’t hurt, but it’ll be startling for a minute until it melts,” Solona suggested.

“She’d call the templars and get you in trouble.”

“Might be worth it.”

Alistair had to smile. Almost.

“I feel like a complete idiot.”

And he felt two arms wrap around his waist in a truly _suffocating_ hug. Seriously, it was hard to breathe.

“You are _not_ . Wanting to have people around who care about you is _normal_ ,Solona insisted. “And trying to find that in someone who’s supposed to be _your sister_ was a natural starting point.”

“Starting point?”

Solona let him go and nodded. “You can _make_ yourself a family.”

 _Is she implying…_ Alistair blushed… and then so did Solona.

“Ah. Ah-ha, no, not what I meant,” she said quickly. “I mean… Maybe it’s better to find people who care about you than it is to make your relatives care. Every Circle apprentice learns that family is what _you_ make it.”

“The only person who ever cared about me is Duncan. And he’s gone.”

Solona melted a bit, and took his hand.

“Alistair… that’s --- that’s just… our friends care about you. And I… so do I, you _have_ to know that by now.” She bit her lip, as if nervous. “Don’t you?”

And he did, _of course he did_ , he wasn’t _that_ stupid, but… right now, it was hard to recall _why_ she cared. Why _anyone_ would care.

“Let’s just go. I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said.

She looked away from him. “Do… do you want to head back? To camp, I mean?”

“I -- yes. Please.”

“All right. There are a few more things I want to pick up while I’m here, so I’ll walk you back and…”

“No, it’s -- it’s fine. I’ll go myself.”

He left her standing in the Denerim market just as it started to snow. And he felt like an ass before he’d taken two steps, but… maybe it would be better if he was alone for a while.

 

* * *

 

Hours passed. Alistair felt like a moody child, but he stayed in his tent. He didn’t have it in him to talk to anyone right now. At least, not until he apologized to Solona. On his knees, maybe. He wasn’t sure how angry she would be with him. She’d probably be furious. Not that-one-day-in-the-Circle mad, but leaving her by herself in a strange city had to warrant _something._

And _shit_ he’d completely forgotten that _there had been posters up for her arrest._ The city guard was _looking_ for her, under Loghain’s orders, and he’d _left her there._ What if something had _happened_ to her? It would be _his_ fault.

So he sat in his tent, listening with everything he had, wondering when he should start to _really_ worry, or if he should be already. But all he heard was Barkspawn and birdsong.

He was about to storm back into the city by himself when he heard Barkspawn’s telltale excited barking. Alistair sighed, relaxing into his bedroll. She was _safe_ and she was _here_ and he hadn’t gotten her killed or arrested.

A few moments later, he heard Solona’s voice, almost clearly.

“Knock, knock?”

“I -- think it’s open?” Alistair answered.

“Just wanted to respect your privacy,” Solona said, climbing inside.

And _wow._ Solona had bought a heavy, dark blue, hooded cloak. And underneath, Alistair caught a glimpse of an honest-to-Andraste _dress,_ in the same blue, with a few glints of silver.

“Leliana ambushed me,” she said, by way of an explanation.

“She… it’s Grey Warden colors,” Alistair said.

“And I don’t know how she talked the merchant down in the price. Seriously, I may be able to control elemental forces, but that was _magic,”_ Solona replied, laughing.

Alistair gave a thin smile. He didn’t know how angry she was, but she’d never _been_ in his tent before, all things considered. How was he supposed to act? And she looked incredible, but was she too angry to want to hear that from him? But she was acting normally, so _how upset was she?_

“I won’t intrude for too long,” she said. “I just wanted to bring you something.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out…

“A miniature golem doll?” he asked. “You… got this for me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “It’s for _us.”_

She showed him a Grey Warden doll, before quickly making the two dolls fight. The golem, understandably, won.

“ _No please!”_ she said as the Grey Warden doll, in a truly ridiculous voice. “ _I have so much for which to live! Aaaarrrggghh...”_

The Grey Warden doll died a long, elaborate death, and Alistair had to laugh. She held both dolls out to him; he took them gratefully.

“Our brother-in-arms there was supposed to have a horse, but someone had bought it already,” she said.

“They bought the horse without the rider?”

“I know! Who _does_ that?” Solona laughed. “Oh, and we also got a cloak for _you_. Same color, I figured you wouldn’t mind matching since it’s the Warden colors and all --”

“Not to sound ungrateful, but… why did you do all of this?”

“It’s… getting cold out and you’re going to need a cloak eventually? And it looks like we might be headed into the mountains soon, so --”

“No, I mean -- the… the dolls and everything…”

“Because I love you.”

_She loved him?_

She said it as if it were… as if it were _obvious_ and _simple_ and just… as _easy_ as that. As if there was nothing else to it but that. As if she hadn’t just stolen the breath out of his lungs again, with just _four words._ At this rate, she’d be able to do it with an isolated sound by next week. And part of him was certain she _could._

_She loved him._

“You don’t have to say it back, or anything at all, if you’re feeling pressured. But I realized today that I… don’t think I showed it enough. That changes now,” Solona said. “If I have to say ‘I love you’ until you’re sick of hearing it, I will.”

_She said it again._

It sounded too beautiful. Like the feeling you get when you look at the sun -- bright and overwhelming, and you’re blinded for a few minutes after. Just without the permanent retinal damage and _Alistair, there is a beautiful woman in your tent telling you she loves you, will you do something?_

The tents weren’t large -- Bodahn had found them somewhere and sold them to Solona at a dubious “discount” -- but Alistair crawled forward and captured Solona’s lips with his own. Her lips parted at the insistent swipe of his tongue, and as his mouth slanted over hers, again and again, and as she let out these tiny and adorable whimpering noises, he tried to show her what he couldn’t seem to figure out how to say.

She pushed forward, the two of them a tangle of lips and limbs. They ended up flopping down side by side on the bedroll, his arms scrabbling to catch them both before they got hurt. The last time they’d spent the night kissing, it… it was just another way to learn about each other, and it hadn’t gone beyond that. It was innocent. Chaste, almost.

This was, um… less so. A low heat blossomed between them, and Solona _melted_ against Alistair’s body in a way that was _beyond_ addictive. He rolled them over onto their sides, and one of her hands traced along his arm.

_Could you just stay like this forever?_

“I’ll need meal breaks,” she said, dropping kisses in a line along his jaw, and _fuck_ his skin was going all shivery. He gasped and turned his head to the side, exposing his throat. She followed where he led her to go, and _Void,_ it was damn near too much.

“I didn’t mean to -- say that out loud.”

He felt her smile against his skin before she gently bit down. She kissed the sting away and _Maker, she was going to kill him._

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or any part of the rest of him, for that matter. He didn’t want to stop -- not yet -- but, just, what was he supposed to -- what did she _want_ him to do?

 _She_ stopped, sitting up beside him. He wanted to call out, to ask, to apologize -- but Solona just unfastened her new cloak and cast it aside. The dress he’d only caught a glimpse of was a far cry from the Circle robes she’d been wearing -- a long-sleeved navy dress with, _Maker help him,_ a silver bodice, as well as silver lacing along the arms. She snaked a leg over his hips and pushed herself up -- _fully_ on top of him -- and crashed her lips back down onto his.

Alistair moaned -- the, the, the _heat_ of her had his hips stuttering upwards, and his hands flew to her waist, keeping her in place. He didn’t have words for how any of this felt. He wasn’t sure he needed them. This… was an entirely new sensation to Alistair. Not just -- that he’d never _done_ anything like this -- but being so obviously _wanted._

And then Solona pressed her hips _down,_ grinding against his cock, igniting the arousal he had been trying _so damned hard_ to ignore. Their kisses went sloppy, almost heedless of everything except the need to be _together._ One of Alistair’s hands wandered up from her waist to her breast -- she whimpered, barely swallowing the sound back.

Some quiet part of Alistair whispered: _you know what she wants. Why not give it to her?_

But… Was he ready for that? Like, really _ready?_ Not just for -- the, the _sex_ \-- but the _bonding_ and everything.

He didn’t think so, even -- even though she loved him, and even with everything that had happened…

Something must have shifted in the air between them, because Solona stopped and pulled away.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“I -- yes, just…” he trailed off. How… how could he _possibly_ explain this? He’d sound crazy. Turning down a woman like _this_ , he’d _have_ to be, right? She was his _soulmate,_ and she was _literally on top of him_.

He was an idiot.

He was _the_ idiot.

“Hey,” she said, putting a hand under his chin and guiding him to look at her. She was smiling softly -- with bright pink cheeks and kiss-swollen lips and eyes blown wide, and _Void_ , he shouldn’t have looked at her, this was not solving his problems. “We follow your lead, remember?”

“ _My_ lead? No-no-no, no leading! Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know, I’m stranded somewhere, without any pants.”

She slid down next to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“You had me until the last part.”

Alistair chuckled, grateful. Grateful that she wasn’t angry, that she understood, that she didn’t want to rush this -- just… everything. All of it.

“I hope this hasn’t… put you off,” Alistair said.

Solona pushed herself onto one arm, looking at him sadly.

“Alistair… you’re not wrong to want to take this slowly. It’s a big commitment. However…” she said, placing a hand on his chest, “not rushing this doesn’t mean it has to be _all_ or _nothing._ There’s plenty of _in-between.”_

That had not occurred to him. _Why_ had that not occurred to him?

“No pressure, as always. Just something to keep in mind.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek, once, before sitting up. “Have you eaten? I could make dinner.”

“I, er… no. I haven’t. Eaten, that is.”

She gave him a forced smile and left the tent.

 _Well. I handled_ that _with my usual deft brilliance,_ Alistair thought.

 _Plenty of in-between,_ she said. He covered his suddenly bright-red face in his hands. How was he going to handle any of _this_ when he couldn’t even convince himself to _hold her hand_ when anyone was around?

He stifled a heartfelt groan. How _he_ had managed to get someone like _her_ to love him, he’d never know. But he knew he’d never deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Alistair needs to learn some self-esteem.


	25. Solona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, lovelies. I was in a play, and then I had a death in the family. Updating might still be a little sporadic, but I'll try to give better warning this time. <3 to you all.

Alistair was avoiding her.

Solona supposed she couldn’t blame him. She had come on a little… stronger than she’d intended last night. To put it lightly.

Above everything else, though, she was ashamed of herself. She’d promised him that there would be no pressure, and then she went and added _ all the fucking pressure  _ at the first opportunity.

… And maybe he wasn’t the only one doing the avoiding. She could barely look him in the face after all of that.

“... bragged about what they did, trying to impress others,” Leliana was saying to Wynne. She put on a ridiculous accent, “‘Oh, Lady Adele, you fed and clothed twenty orphans, how noble!’ ‘No, no, it is nothing, Lady Clarabelle. You treated forty lepers and gave them massages!’ Like a competition, with false modesty. Sickening.”

“Did Lady Clarabelle really give forty lepers massages?”

“Who knows. Lady Clarabelle had strange tastes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did that, and more.”

Wynne chuckled lightly, and Leliana turned her attention to Solona.

“Are  _ you _ religious, Solona?” Leliana asked.

“Me? Oh. Um. No, not really.”

“Do you believe in the Maker?”

“I… N-no. I don’t. I’m sorry if that lowers your opinion of me at all, but I just… can’t.”

“Oh. Oh, I see,” Leliana said. She sounded less disappointed than confused, thankfully. “Then… how do you think everything got here?”

“I don’t know,” Solona admitted. “But I think the most dangerous thing we could do is to pretend we have all the answers. You’ll never find the truth if you stop looking for it.”

“That’s true,” Leliana said.

“‘You,’ as in ‘people in general,’ not ‘you, specifically!’” Solona corrected, flushing. “I -- We could  _ both _ be wrong. Or we could  _ both _ be right. I just think that the real answer is bigger, grander, and stranger than we could possibly imagine.”

Leliana was quiet. And the tips of Alistair’s ears were a faint pink.

_ Brilliant plan, Solona. Admit your atheism to the templar. _

“You and Wynne are both good people, without being religious.”

“I… like to help people. And I’d like to be helped if I needed it. So… that’s what I do. It’s… not terribly profound, I’m sorry.”

“Doing good for its own sake doesn’t have to be profound,” Leliana started -- then stopped as a disheveled woman ran up to them. She had scrapes and bruises all over her body, and her hair was wild -- something had happened. Solona walked up quickly, clasping the woman’s hands in her own.

Her skin prickled with an odd feeling… that stopped when the woman let go of her hands.

“Oh, thank the Maker! We need help! They attacked the wagon; please help us!” she cried.

Solona was bewildered, but she couldn’t back down from helping  _ now _ , even if her mind was screaming that there was something wrong here. If there was a wagon attacked, she would assist however she could.

When the woman’s frantic run slowed to a saunter, Solona realized that had been a mistake. The woman turned and smiled at them, standing next to a dark-skinned, light-haired elf. He gave a small signal, and men flooded the clearing: archers along both sides, and a few bandits in the clearing. Lightning cracked around the woman’s hands as several of the carefully-positioned men knocked down a large tree behind them. There was no escape.

“The Grey Warden dies here!” the elf shouted with -- what accent was that? Antivan?

Also: he used the singular.  _ One _ Grey Warden?

She was caught off-guard, and the large group of bandits in front of her took advantage of that fact. If it weren’t for Alistair throwing his shield in front of her, she’d have been perforated with all the arrows coming straight for her.

“Thanks,” she said.

Alistair nodded, keeping his shield up. He was hoping for something powerful, she could tell. Like the spell that took out the corpses in Redcliffe, or the ice at the Tower of Ishal.

Scanning the field quickly, she saw several large rocks to her left. And she noticed that the archers were standing in roughly straight lines.  _ Like skittles, _ she thought.

She could work with that.

She pushed as much mana as she could into a large boulder stuck in the dug-out wall on the left. It wiggled, wobbled, and broke free, rolling down the hill the archers had created for themselves.

They panicked and broke into a run. Apparently they weren’t getting paid enough for this. Leliana and Wynne, meanwhile, had been whittling down the archers on the right side. They’d be taken care of shortly.

That left one-third of the enemy in front of Solona and Alistair -- the woman who’d tricked them and the elf, along with a few sword-wielding bandits.

The elf  _ charged _ forward, and the woman fired a lightning spell at them. Solona froze the ground underneath them, and the elf went base-over-apex into the ground.

The woman --  _ mage _ \-- was still standing. Alistair glanced at Solona apologetically before cleansing the area of all magic, including Solona’s ice. He rushed forward, taking on the bandits himself.

Solona saw the elf getting up and positioning himself behind Alistair, a cruel-looking dagger in his hand.

_ “No!” _ she shouted, drawing a glyph of repulsion in the air with her hands. The mana sank into the earth, throwing the elf away from Alistair.

But she was distracted.

A lightning spell hit her square in the chest. Solona couldn’t breathe, her skin was burning and she couldn’t  _ breathe _ \-- she fell to her knees.

She felt Wynne behind her, a hand on her shoulder, a soothing white light -- the panic eased somewhat.

“Serves me right for not paying attention.” Solona wheezed, her hands twitching.

She heard a low chuckle, and she forced her shaky legs to stand. The battle was finished, and Alistair rushed back over to them.

“I -- are you all right? I didn’t see what happened.”

“Lightning spell. I’m fine,” she said.

“I was… I was trying to get to that mage before she hit you, but --”

“It’s fine, the battle’s over and we’re all standing.” Solona smiled at him -- but her mouth twitched in spite of her attempts to keep it under control.

She sighed, frustrated. “Is that going to keep happening?” she asked Wynne.

“Probably, yes. For at least a short while. If it doesn’t stop by the time we reach camp, you may have to take a day or two of rest.”

“We don’t have that kind of  _ time _ , Wynne.”

“Wait -- look,” Leliana called out. “The leader is still alive.”

The elf was stirring a few feet away. Solona and the team walked over toward him warily.

“Hmm. What? I… oh,” he said, opening his eyes. “I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

“I have some questions,” Solona replied.

“Ah! So I’m to be interrogated? Let me save you some time,” the elf said. “My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

That… was a problem. The Antivan Crows were notorious assassins. Solona had read  _ The Murder of Queen Madrigal _ enough times (thirty-four, to be exact) to be thoroughly familiar with their reputation.

“Who hired you?”

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that was it.”

“And… you were hired to kill  _ how many  _ Grey Wardens, exactly?”

“One, specifically. And that would be you.”

That should not have made her feel the  _ relief _ that it did. But there was a chance, then, that Loghain  _ didn’t _ yet know that Alistair was alive.

“Does that mean you’re loyal to Loghain?” Alistair demanded from behind her.

“I have no idea what his issues are with her,” Zevran explained. “The usual, I imagine. She threatens his power, yes? Beyond that, no, I am not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service. It is, as you say, nothing personal.”

“I get that a lot,” Solona said dryly. “So what would happen now? When would you see Loghain again?”

“I wouldn’t. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results -- if he didn’t already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.”

“ _ If _ you had failed?” Solona raised an eyebrow.

“What can I say? I am an eternal optimist. Although the chances of me succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don’t they?” Zevran laughed, then paused. “No, I don’t suppose you’d find that funny, would you?”

Solona bit back the smile that seemed determined to come out, hoping she could hide it as another twitch of her lips. This was the strangest assassin she’d ever heard of.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Why not? I wasn’t paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely. As it is, if you’re done with the interrogation, I’ve a proposal for you, if you’re of a mind.”

“Go ahead,” Solona said. Alistair bristled next to her.

“Well, here’s the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause,” Zevran suggested, “so let me serve you instead.”

“And what’s to stop you from finishing the job later?” Alistair asked.

“To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child,” Zevran said. “I think I’ve paid my worth back to them plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can’t touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might just kill me on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I’d rather take my chances with you.”

“What would you want in return?” Solona rubbed her forehead. Alistair was going to be angry with her, and honestly? So was she. How could she be  _ seriously considering _ this?

“Well, let’s see… being allowed to live would be nice. And would make me marginally more useful to you.”

And that  _ damned smile _ actually came out this time. And Zevran saw it. 

“And if somewhere down the line you decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?”

She heard Alistair stifle an indignant noise.

“Why would I  _ want _ your service?” Solona said, not acknowledging it.

“Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated now that my attempts have failed,” Zevran said. “I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?”

“No.” Solona bit back a chuckle. That was a little  _ too _ far for a would-be assassin. And she wanted to reassure Alistair; she knew his anger was simmering just beneath the surface, bond or no bond.

Zevran just laughed. “I like a woman who knows what she wants, I really do. So what shall it be? I’ll even shine armor. You won’t find a better deal, I promise.”

Solona pretended to think about it. But really, she wasn’t going to kill a man on the ground in front of her, who hadn’t really wanted to kill her in the first place. It would be like hating Alistair for being a templar, when he’d never chosen that life.

She extended a hand to Zevran, helping him up.

“I accept,” she said.

“What?” Alistair demanded. “You’re taking the assassin with us now?”

“Do  _ you _ want to kill him?” she asked, with the air of one of their usual quips.

“I -- all right, I see your point. Still, if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.”

“I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear,” Zevran said with a flourish.

“Terribly dramatic, aren’t you?” Solona replied, smiling. “This is Leliana, Wynne, and Alistair.”

“Welcome, Zevran. Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan,” Leliana said.

“Oh? You are another companion, then? I wasn’t aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely.” Zevran’s voice dropped suggestively for the fourth time in the span of two minutes.

“Or maybe not,” Leliana replied flatly.

“Oh, um. Were you injured at all?” Solona asked.

Zevran laughed. “No, I appear to be in decent shape. But that  _ spell _ of yours! For just a moment, I knew what it was like to fly.”

“It’s -- a simple Glyph of Repulsion,” Solona said. 

“A beautiful woman like you would need a spell like that to keep the undesirables away, no?”

Solona gave him a flat look, even though she wasn’t offended. This elf reminded her too much of some old friends. “Ah, so you’re _ that _ kind.”

“For you, I would be any kind you like.” Zevran winked at her.

Solona laughed outright, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Come on, we’ve got to get to the Brecilian Forest. We’ll fill you in on the way,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Werewolves.

_ Fucking werewolves. _

It was never easy, was it? The treaties that Duncan said would  _ oblige _ people to help them seemed to be treated as mere  _ suggestions _ .

If the dwarves pulled this shit, Solona might scream.

They hadn’t ventured into the forest proper yet; Solona made the call that they should do it early the next morning, when they were refreshed and had plenty of daylight. Less likely that they’d get lost in the forest that way. Everyone seemed grateful for the opportunity to rest; it had been a  _ lot _ of walking to get here, and there was even more ahead.

Zevran fit in as well as flirtatious men always do: all of the ladies, Solona excepted, threatened to separate some of his body parts from the others -- with especially graphic detail, per Morrigan. He just laughed, backing off when they asked him to. Solona couldn’t help giggling. Which made her his most frequent target, much to Alistair’s obvious irritation.

After the fifteenth or so suggestive line in the past ten minutes, Alistair abruptly stood up from where he sat across the fire.

“Solona,” he said, awkward as ever, “I -- I think we need more firewood. We don’t know what we’ll find in the forest, and I’d hate to run short.”

Solona glanced from him to the  _ massive pile _ of firewood just between them and Morrigan’s usual campsite. It was a threadbare excuse, but it might be a chance to apologize for yesterday.

“Sure,” she said. “Going to need a hand?”  

“Yes, please -- I mean, if you can, if you’re still eating…”

Solona just smiled at him and stood up, smoothing the front of her new blue dress.

The pair of them walked in silence toward the entrance of the forest, but didn’t stray beyond where the Dalish told them the forest truly began. There were plenty of twigs and small pieces of wood just between the Dalish camp and the forest to make this plausible.

“So… Zevran,” he said. “The two of you were quite… friendly.”

Solona’s jaw  _ dropped.  _ And so did the wood.

“You -- think I’m interested in  _ Zevran. _ ”

“I -- well, it’s just…”

She couldn’t help it; the laughter just bubbled up and out of her, as if it had a mind of its own. Alistair just sort of stood there, flat-footed and uncertain. Solona put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

“I’m sorry, Alistair, I’m not laughing at  _ you. _ I’m laughing at the  _ idea. _ I must not have done a good enough job explaining about Voices.” She cleared her throat and tried to steady herself. “There is only one thing that could get me to even consider being with anyone else.”   
“And that is?” he asked, sounding more nervous than he perhaps intended to.

“If, for whatever reason, you aren’t an option. If you’re not interested, if you break it off, if -- Maker forbid -- if something  _ happens _ to you,” she fought a lump that wanted to rise in her throat at the thought, “and even then, it would take a long time for me to even  _ think  _ of it. Otherwise, the only way you’re getting me away from you is with a very strong pry bar. Flirtatious assassins or no.”

“But he’s -- I don’t know, suave. He talks to you so  _ easily, _ and it’s --”

“This may surprise you, but  _ suave _ doesn’t do it for everyone,” Solona said, squeezing his arm. “Besides, it’s a heady thing, to know that you can flummox an otherwise confident young man into forgetting how words work. It’s endearing and, most of all,  _ sincere. _ ”

Alistair stared at her. Almost as if he were waiting for something else, some final reassurance. She cupped his cheek for a moment, pulling him to look at her.

“I love _ you.  _ That isn’t going to change.”

He looked away, blushing and running a hand through his hair.

“I… feel like that might be my greatest accomplishment.”

“And you didn’t even have to do anything!” Solona laughed.

Alistair chuckled, then dipped his head to kiss her once, as softly as he could.

“So, then,” he said, clearing his throat, “about -- well,  _ last night.” _

“I know,  _ I know, _ I’m sorry, I pressured you and I said I wouldn’t, and I’m --”

“What? No, that’s -- I mean, I just… I wanted to ask… what you meant by, um,  _ in-between.” _

Solona blushed -- not a delicate whirl of color, either, a full-on pigment change from her usual peaches-and-cream to tomato-red.

And then, pushing her blush and embarrassment aside, she rose onto tiptoes and dropped her voice to a near-whisper in his ear. 

“Are you asking for a description or a demonstration?”

“I… um, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder. “So I get to choose?”

“I…” he gulped, “I suppose.”

She took a long moment, placing gentle kisses along his jaw. Alistair shivered and tipped his head up to allow her to reach more easily. She followed his movements until her lips met his with a ghost of a touch, then she grinned.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” she said brightly, turning away and pretending to look for more firewood.

Alistair stood behind her for a minute, then shot his arms around her waist, playfully dragging her back. She yelped in surprise and delight as he turned her around to face him and crashed his lips down onto hers, then softened, using the same ghost-like touch she’d done to him before.

“You,” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss, “are a horrible, mean person.”

She didn’t reply, opening her lips for him to deepen the kiss -- but he didn’t. She whimpered, frustrated, trying to move closer to him -- and he stepped away. She tried again, and he stepped away again. She was only too content to follow, chasing after the kiss he wouldn’t give her. 

“The literal worst,” he whispered, and  _ Maker _ , only now was she aware of how much her body was humming in response to this man, of the heat blossoming between the two of them. 

She stumbled and one knee nearly hit the ground, but Alistair caught her by the arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice gone husky.

“I’m fine,” she said. Solona stared up at him, barely daring to breathe.

Alistair reached out, cupping her cheek; she leaned into his touch, making it perhaps more obvious than she needed to. He smirked --  _ smirked!  _ \-- and finally gave her the long-awaited kiss. And with that spark, she  _ ignited _ , responding to his every movement, breath, and sound with every ounce of desire she had. 

Solona slid a hand up into his hair, pulling him as close as she could manage with the other hand. Alistair huffed out a breath, almost a moan, sliding his tongue against hers in obvious retaliation. 

_ That _ did it. If he was going to tease her, she was going to make him regret it. 

She broke the kiss, taking two steps backward and leaning against a tree, her hands behind her, signaling that she was here for the taking. Alistair stared in disbelief until she met his eyes -- whatever he saw there, it made him moan and rush forward, one hand steadying himself against the tree, the other tracing the line of her waist and hips, over and over, as if he didn’t quite believe it. He kissed her neck, and she sucked in a gasp. She’d forgotten she was more exposed than she was used to in the new dress.

After a long moment, the two of them stopped, wordlessly staring at each other against the tree, trying to memorize each other -- to burn this moment into their minds forever. Or, at least, Solona was doing that, and she assumed Alistair was doing the same from the soft, caring look on his face.

“ _ That, _ ” she said, delicately putting a hand to his lips, “is what I meant by in-between.”

“Good to know,” Alistair whispered.

And with that (and without any firewood), Solona and Alistair walked back to camp, hand-in-hand.     
  



End file.
